


The Training Facility

by lapsi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety, Bondage, Chastity Device, Cock Cages, Dirty Talk, Electricity, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemas, Fucking Machines, Latex, M/M, Master/Slave, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Nipple Clamps, Orgasm Denial, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Predicament Bondage, Prostate Milking, Punishment, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Toys, Slavery, Sounding, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-22 15:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2513231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsi/pseuds/lapsi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slavery!AU, in which Dean is sent away for disobedience. The facility specializes in sex slaves who haven't learned their place, to be conditioned into the perfect pets for their owner. His trainer, Castiel, shows a particular interest in fixing the bitch's attitude.</p><p>(Mostly just porn and pain.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Castiel runs a gloved hand down the shuddering flank of the panting boy, wolfish smile developing as he's met with a jump, and then a whine that is barely audible over the slick squelching, the mechanical whirr of the machine ruthless fucking him. Dean's exhausted muscles show under the pale skin as he tries to pull away. Can't get very far though, not with his wrists bound by a tightly laced sleeve in the small of his sweat-sheened back, not with how he's secured to the machine below him. There's a thick leather blindfold keeping every bit of light out, a breathable red ball gag stretching his mouth wide so he can't help but drool incessantly, and a collar keeps his face resting on the floor, or an inch away at most. Metal cuffs around his ankles are attached to ringlets in the concrete, feet useless. Mercifully, his knees are padded, or they'd be bloodied to shreds. Between his thighs is a wide spreader bar, keeping him from straightening up at all, with a chain attached the machine to ensure the boy can never squirm his way out of the continuous penetration.  
  
  
There's a grate between his legs where his waste will run down, a hose sitting in the corner of the concrete pen to hose him down when it comes to inspection time. After the machine is out for the assigned hours of sleep, the bitch will be woken up with the nozzle pressed to his recovering hole, the water flowing through his bowels. It's always slightly warm for the bitch's comfort, but the cramping starts almost straight away, bodies fighting against the inflation process. It stretches within them, blossoming out from their constantly abused asshole, gravity and water pressure swelling them up like a pregnancy. Cleaning them out for the day's use. The slaves quiver and sweat as their pathetic mewls become hopeless panting. They are then plugged with the machine's huge dildo, pushed right to the hilt as the water threatens to escape, the pressure too much for even the well-fucked sluts to handle. Dean doesn't bother trying to restrain his animalistic whimpering these days. It's more than any toy he ever took as a sex-slave, bigger than any cock forced into him at Michael's mansion. Certainly teaching him to be grateful for everything he took for granted there from the moment he'd been bought. That was a world of luxury, pleasure, compared to this industrialized Hell. Nothing but the machine, the sadistic trainers and the gagged moaning of every other bitch in their sty.  
  
  
The vibration in the dildo will start then, as the slave's ball gag is removed, and a plate of slop is shoved under their mouth. As they eat, their entire body will be shaking, and their bulging, distended belly will slosh wildly. If they don't ignore the agony of inflation, they'll go hungry, and no slave is that stupid twice. When the plate is licked clean, the gag will be reinserted, and a water dish with be left in its place. By sucking through the ball gag, the slave can slowly drink during the day's fucking. Have to learn their place, after all. They are their mouth, their ass, their obedience to their master. No more than that. The mechanical thrusting starts without letting the water out, the machine pistoning out first, right down to the narrowed end (every slave groans in relief the water gushes out and down the grate) and then sliding back in at a punishing rhythm. Still vibrating, and around twelve inches from base to tip. Every inch will be forced into the disobedient slave at some point or another. They won't properly come on it, not once. The occasional, dribbling prostate orgasm, but largely the cock cages make that too painful. What they will be subjected to, other than the degradation, the comments, the stares, is much more deliberate. On the first day, it was a whip, enough to smart without serious marks, and over the next days there was paddling, choking and finally a low voltage cattle prod (Dean thinks) usually paired with a constant stream of verbal abuse. He'd be called a bad slave, pathetic, useless, worthless. Dean has a temper and a will of iron, but when the electricity sparked across his nipples his silence had been abandoned. He'd sobbed and begged around the gag, comforted after the punishment with soft petting through his hair. Every moment the machine drilled him from behind, making him keen and squirm with desire and agony. Being a good boy makes this easier on him.  
  
  
Castiel is checking the leather and the chains now, whispering as he strokes from the knee right up Dean's thigh, over a patch of freckles and then to where his pubic hair was ripped off painfully with wax strips. Beauty is pain, and Dean's pain is certainly beautiful. He pauses there. "Such a pretty slut. I can see why he was so keen to have you retrained rather than just put in a body bag," he says, darkly, and then his fingers slide lower, running across his groin. Dean's cock is almost purple with prolonged arousal, bound up tight by a cruel looking piece of silver metalwork. The cock cage won't be coming off any time soon. Satisfied with the slave's health, Castiel slaps his ass a little harder, rewarded with a keel of surprise. Sensory deprivation makes them so responsive. "I need you to be good for me now, boy," he whispers in his ear, stubble grazing the earlobe before he steps away. Dean knows his master is a very important man, and no doubt the special attention is a result of Michael's political pull. The slave has been here two weeks now, sent away from his master after an escape attempt. The training will be complete in only a month, usually, or there will be permanent physical and psychological damage done to the property. Dean tenses and groans as he inadvertantly tightens his raw anus around the huge intrusion. There's a hollow in the tip of the dildo, he's figured, constant lubrication leaking out. It runs down the back of his thighs in cold rivulets. Still, day after day of relentless fucking has left him bruised and sore all over. He's not supposed to be enjoying this. He's been a bad slave, and his masters here are letting him see his place.  
  
  
There's brief footsteps after, a short sound of shock from one of the men. "...is everything alright, sir?" comes Castiel's gravelly tone, severe without being disrespectful.  
"That looks painful," comes the reply, and Dean could crawl straight into his master's lap if he wasn't tied down. He resented him every moment of the trip here, when he was bundled out of a crate and strapped down. Now, he sees how lucky he had been to get such a kind man. He should have been honored to be at his feet, in his bed. He wishes he could say that now, but he just falls still under the pistoning, waiting for the trainer to respond.  
"He's a good bitch now. He's learning his place."  
There's silence, and Dean squirms under what he can only imagine is Michael's evaluation. The machine's pace is often irregular, and now it is slow and deep, occasionally brushing his prostate when his back arches. He wishes he could see, and as if Michael can hear his thoughts, his master speaks. "Get that out of his mouth, off his eyes. I want to hear his apology." Beneath the smooth tone, there's rage.  
"I warn you, it'll be a shock for hi--"  
"...are you questioning me?"  
"No, sir," comes Castiel's response, and the footsteps are closer, Castiel clicking open a clasp and loosening the blindfold. Dean whines against the light, trying to shy away, eyes screwed closed. The gag comes out easily, wet with drool. Michael examines his slave's face, the loose and cherubic lips covered in spittle, the freckles standing out on a flushed, pale face.  
"He's got stubble," Michael notes, displeasure evident. Dean's eyes open for a moment, just a glimpse of the pristine grey dress shoes. Michaelmichaelmichael, he wants to chant, but bites his tongue.  
"With all due respect, sir, your arrival was a surprise. We wax the bitches every other week, but--"  
"I have no patience for your plentiful excuses," Michael barely whispers, but the trainer is spared by the distraction of Dean letting out a tiny noise, trying not to let his eyes roll as they finally open against the light.  
  
  
In his memory, his crate had been smaller, closing him in. He looks over at the trainer, striking blue eyes and a cruel smirk playing on his lips while Michael can't see. His breathing speeds as he stares up, pleading as well as he can in absolute silence. Michael only meets his slave's eyes for a moment, never prompting conversation. Castiel has stepped back a little, hanging the blindfold and the gag on hooks by the door, and Dean shivers through his entire body as he sees the other bondage equipment that has yet to be used on him. Then he concentrates on Michael's movement, wishing his collar allowed him to turn his head to see, knowing he'd be punished for curiosity. He's turning red with humiliation as he feels the machine pistoning into him. Slower and deeper now.  
"You're controlling it, are you?" Michael asks, voice pointed with interest. Maybe he's planning on buying one of these to keep his slave on permanently. Always stretched out and ready for him. Always this wreck of nerves to be toyed with. He nudges Dean's hip with his toe, watches the way he practically jumps. Castiel smiles too, extends a touchscreen remote that must have been hidden in his pocket.  
"Very good, sir. The first setting is depth of thrust, the second is speed, third is vibration."  
"And why don't you simply keep it on the highest settings all the time?" Michael asks, practically snatching it from Castiel's hands.  
"...with all due respect, sir, we don't want to turn the slave's brain to pulp," he says, earnest and without humor.  
Dean flinches at the words, then at Michael's laugh. He feels the machine speeding, gasps against the floor. The toy pushes against the warm, wet flesh all the way in, colliding with his hypersensitive prostate, forcing his entire body to jerk in the restraints. Then again, faster this time, and he cries out and bucks wildly. He feels it slip almost all of the way out of his pink, sore hole, sure Michael is watching it flutter wildly with overstimulation, and then the slightly ribbed length slides all the way in again at once, bottoming out inside him with a wet slap.  
  
  
"I guess I was too soft on you. Seems like your instinct is to be a bitch and nothing more. I'll treat you as you deserve from now on," Michael whispers, as the machine continues furiously.  
"He's made for it," Castiel confirms, seems awed by Michael's authority. Maybe he shouldn't have drawn attention, because the dark eyes swivel at once.  
"Made for _me_. Has anyone _enjoyed_ my boy while he's been here?" he says silkily, over Dean's exhausted whimpers.  
"Of course not, sir."  
"Really? You haven't wanted to? Those pretty, plump lips, and you never thought about taking the gag off and seeing how well I'd taught him to choke down a cock?"  
"No, sir," Castiel forces the words out as obediently, as meekly as he can possibly.  
"...I don't believe you. Go on."  
"Sorry, sir?"  
"I said go on. Sit down and let him show you how grateful he is for your attention. Dean looks after all of my friends," Michael says dangerously, just as Dean starts crying with sensation, squirming harder now, trying not to speak. The possessive glint lights up the dark eyes as Michael begins to smile.  
There's a tension and silence between the gentleman and the trainer, and then Castiel is almost too eager, dragging a low stool closer, unclipping Dean's collar and pulling the short chain like a leash upwards. He's still mostly immobilized, back arching to still accommodate the huge fake cock imbedding itself inside him. Fingers stroke his hair once as the lab coat is unbuttoned, the slacks opened, and then Dean's wet mouth is shoved towards the half-hard cock, freed from the underwear. The dark curls peek from the small patch of bared skin, but otherwise Castiel has all his dignity. He doesn't have to encourage Dean much, so eager to please both the trainer, and his voyeuristic master. His mouth is sloppy with drool, and he takes all of the length at once. His tongue strokes furiously, and then the boy moans around the hot skin, seems glad to be gagged again. Maybe nursing a crush on the trainer he tried so hard to hate. He hopes Michael sees only eagerness to obey.  
  
  
"Fuck. Fuck, he's good," Castiel curses as he bunches fingers in the hair, a perfect view of where the enormous, thick toy is pounding the slave's ass. Michael seems to wear an expression somewhere between jealousy and delight, erection showing through his slacks. Asked for the pretty boy trainer for a reason, after all. Michael steps a little closer, predatory and powerful as he watches Dean's green eyes fill with tears as they roll back with fucked-out pleasure.  
"How does he feel?" comes the almost taunting question.  
"Wet. So... hot and wet and... he's practically choking himself on me," Castiel rushes out, over another moan, a flush creeping past his tie and up his neck. His hand is just above Dean's collar now, feeling himself fill the stretched out throat. The wet lips and the friction down the bitch's throat is enough to have him thrusting up already.  
"Look at the way my slave is pushing himself back onto the machine. Bitch must want more. I bet he wants to be filled right up. I'm going to have to keep such a big plug in him all the time now, or he'll start getting withdrawals," Michael says, cruelly, as Dean shudders. His cock cage seems to be tighter than ever, feels like it's on fire with how desperately his body is trying to get off. His hips sway in tandem with the ruthless pace, and he's sucking so eagerly that he practically chokes on the semen shot down his throat. Castiel pants hard, watching the machine continue, watching Dean whine and lick at him, cleaning him with a desperate show to impress.  
"He wants to get off," Castiel breathes out, batting the slave away, when he can think straight. His hands are still shaking as he closes up his clothing, clicks the chain down in place to the floor again. He almost immediately regrets the words with how eagerly Dean's eyes flicker up to him.  
"Oh, I'm sure my slave does. But this treatment isn't for his benefit," Michael points out, hand back on the remote. The machine comes still, almost completely halted except for the inch by inch drag in and out. Dean starts crying freely, trying to rock back onto it, and his owner clicks his tongue in disapproval. "And it's got weeks to go before he's really ready to come home and be a good boy for me again. Hm, Dean? You can speak now."  
"Please, please, 'm so sorry, I wanna go home, wanna be with you, wanna--" the boy chokes out, high-pitched in a frenzy of desire.  
"That's enough," Michael cuts him off sharply, and leans down at once, grabs Dean by the mouth and pulls his face up to meet the hazy eyes. Dean chokes a little as his collar comes to the end of its chain, but Michael shows no pity. The snarl is more pronounced now. "You don't deserve to come home. You don't deserve the life you used to have. When you get that through your head, you'll be of some use to me, are we clear?"  
"Yes, sir," comes the choked reply. Michael lets out a soft, satisfied sound, drops the boy to pant and heave against the concrete, shaking in his bondage. What a pathetic creature, Michael seems to all but say as he scoffs, stands to leave.  
  
  
"Gag him again, put the blindfold on. I want you to remove the machine. I'll be back to check up in two days, and I want him nice and tight by the time I'm here to enjoy him. Until then, don't let him get off, don't let him rest. Punish him whenever he doesn't seem aroused. He's a little masochist, you know. I want attention on him at all times so that when I come back, he's so desperate he can't even speak," Dean whines on the floor, shaking even more now. His back arches and he tries to stare upwards again, but Castiel is already back with the gag, the blindfold. He feels the dildo slip out of him, whimpers once more as he hears the footsteps heading away. All around him there's silence except for the other slave's panting and whimpering, the wet squelching of the toys. Now he wishes he was being punished by the machine too, even having his mouth fucked by Castiel, a hand stroking his bound form. He needs _something_ inside him.


	2. Chapter 2

Michael doesn't come after two days. Dean whines into his gag and squirms harder when he realizes it's getting too late, and _he's not coming_. Not only does he desperately want his Master to fuck him, but it will mean the agony ceases. Dean had thought he could deal with pain, after all these years of slavery, the heartache of being nothing more than property. Now he's a quivering mess. First, they'd chilled the sty right down, until he was shivering in his tight restraints, trepidation making his heart race and his entire body shake even more than just the cold. Then footsteps. Could have been Castiel, could have been anyone else. In absolute silence, Dean had been aware of the drag of leather on his ass before the first blow, like a gunshot in the tiny space. He jolted badly, almost throttling himself on the collar, silent even though tears start quickly. The stripe of flesh where it had landed must have glowed cherry red, and it seemed to pulse with agony. He decided it couldn't be Castiel. Castiel couldn't hurt him after what they'd shared. He took the next six blows with stoic concentration, but soon enough he was sobbing into the gag, tears dribbling out of the blindfold. His ass stung everywhere the blows had reached, skin prickling with discomfort. Every time he moved, something would start hurting again, Then, footsteps. He was alone again to cry at the injustice. But not for long. From the moment Michael left, to when he might come back, Dean was tormented.  
  
  
They wouldn't mark him up long term, or do any permanent injury, but Dean knew he was going to suffer all the same. By then, he was just aching for something penetrating him too, and the stinging of his raised ass only made it worse. The pain kindled something low in his gut, and he longed for the relief of an orgasm as he huffed out short breaths and tried to control the sobs. Michael was right, he  _did_ enjoy the pain Didn't get long to regroup. Next came nipple clamps, agony that only got worse as he shivered. The little metals clamps dug in to the sensitive skin, hard with cold. Not his first experience with those, Michael enjoys watching him squirm and teasing him about his girlish sensitivity. These are worse, though, made him feel ashamed, and then aroused, and above all else terribly sore. The pain seems to spread out, tendrils extending through the taut, sweaty skin of his chest. He bucked in his harsh and unrelenting restraints, but had to still when the swinging weight of the clamps made the pain flare up. He feels sick with trepidation by the time he's adjusted to the sensation. The two day mark comes around, and there's just silence and the pulsing agony, Dean whining into his gag. There's darkness, mostly silence except for the other slaves getting their fucking (Dean wishes he was getting the same, wishes there was some sort of relief) until, at long last, footsteps. A trainer's work boots. Not Michael. He tenses in trepidation, muscles twitching with anticipated pain. It's the cattle rod again, behind the thin skin of his knees, between the webbing of his toes, at his throat, his cheek, the nape of his stretched neck. Usually they are much more delicate than this, in fact, it seems heavy handed. Punishing him with a vengeance, it seems. He screams into his gag without caring about how he sounds, screams with agony and with hopelessness and desire. He doesn't have far to fall when he collapses, hips kept up by the restraints, consciousness swimming and fading with exhausted agony.

  
He dreams about his life before he became property. Growing up on the run, his Father's arrest, the desperate attempt after attempt to break him out. The greasy little man in his expensive suit, warped by the duration of time since. His face was a smile that looked more forced than Dean had thought possible, but the offer was enticing, and Dean had never  _seen_ so much money in person. The right bribe, and his Father could go free. His brother would have money to settle down in the city, go to school. His little brother had already been so smart too. He remembers the words slipping out his mouth. Yes, I'll do it. Yes. Yes, he thinks, and jerks all of a sudden as he feels the memories retreating.  
He comes to, strapped into a new position, which is a relief for his body if nothing else. The same position for such a long time has been torture, and he can feel knots of tension coming undone by the change alone. Nothing else is comforting. He tests the restraints, though the blindfold and gag are still in place, so he has to guess the rest. His legs don't move, strapped into stirups like he's in some twisted operating theater. His arms don't move either, wrenched above his head, and there's a strap around his middle holding him down to the inclined table and constricting his breathing as it becomes panicked. He tells himself to calm the hell down, shivers again and curses into the gag at the feeling of the nipple clamps still there. His head lolls back, but snaps back to attention when he hears footsteps, the rattling of some sort of equpiment, and then there's fingers prodding and poking at his abused balls. He feels the drag of latex on the digits as they roll them back and forth, and he screams with the hypersensitivity, muffled into a pathetic sound in his gag. Somehow, he feels himself aroused again. God, he needs a release. Needs something. Needs Michael. Then the fingers brush his nipples, and stroke across his cheek once. He hears the faintest tutting before there's a retreat.

  
  
He recognizes hot wax when it's brushed in wide strokes across his pubic region, and his panic mounts, twisting and shaking, wishing he could plead his way out of this. The first strip comes off with sharp agony, and Dean feels his heart speed as there's another strip spread out. He's weeping again, no control, teeth biting into the hard rubber holding his mouth open. He tries not to anticipate them, but it's impossible with how methodic it is, right back to the cleft of his ass. His armpits get the same treatment, less painful, but still making him twitch and shiver. He's never had hair on his chest, thankfully, but he realizes that it's not done when he feels the hand loosening his gag, pulling it away entirely, roughly drying his tear-soaked cheeks. The trainer is so close now Dean can smell the slight scent of human past all the antiseptic and cold metal.  
"Do you know how much trouble you got me into?" comes Castiel's icy tone, so near his ear he jolts. Castiel? This is Castiel, so willing to hurt him. Dean's mind reels, and he shakes even more as the wax is spread across his chin and his neck. Castiel isn't done speaking. "And he's asked for me again today. That asshole is going to get me fired. Just know that. If you want to start screaming and making a scene, you'll realize so far I've been nothing but _kind_ to you."  
Dean doesn't have a chance to considering opening his mouth to blurt out an apology. The strip of wax comes off, and he has to clench his hands above his head to keep from crying out. The tears start. Castiel makes a disgusted sound, keeps up the work. Another wax strip. Another. Why would Michael have been so angry? Didn't he ask for Dean to do what he did? What if that's why he's angry at Dean too? His head spins right up until Castiel steps away, and then the gag is wedged back into his mouth. Dean forces himself not to retch at the cold saliva still coating the gag. There's the clicking footsteps. Not done yet.

  
  
"You've been fed, but you haven't been cleaned," Castiel says in a dangerous silky voice, and Dean lets out a terrified moan. He knows what that means. Another enema. Still, there's worse to come. He hears a sound of clinking, like stones turned by the tide. He doesn't recognize it at first, but the dark laugh gives him a cue. Ice. No, that's just sadistic, it's bad enough being filled up forcefully. He feels Castiel's hand cupping his balls again, sliding lower. "You won't want to buck around as much as usual, boy. He wants you nice and tight, and you're only going to make him angrier if he can tell something's been in his bitch's hole." It's so matter-of-fact that Dean falls still, though he's still shaking and crying. It's tubing that he feels being wedged into his tight, clenched hole. He couldn't move away if he thought resisting would do anything. He twitches when he feels something inflate a little inside him. Must be to stop all the water flowing out, without the pressure of the hose. He almost enjoys the new pressure, and then feels sick. The nozzle is turned with a faint squeak, and there's the rush of icy water. It sprays his insides, seems to chill him more than anything else. Every inch of skin is immediately covered in goosebumps, and the nipple clamps feel worse as the abused nubs try to become erect.  Dean shakes in the bonds, begging now with stifled syllables. Why? Why? He feels the cramping start, but it stops sooner than he'd thought. Doesn't want to stretch him out for Michael, he realizes. He can feel the icy chill stabbing low in his abdomen, and then he feels a hand cupping his distended belly. Castiel pokes the swollen skin, jiggling the water held inside. Toying with the slave. Dean's full belly is too sensitive to resist. He straightens up.  
"Try to wait till I'm gone to soil yourself," comes Castiel's cruel and disparaging comment. Dean squirms and whines at the feeling of gloved fingers pulling the tubing out. The chilled water sloshes a little, but very little escapes, hard as Dean is bearing down. His cheeks turn bright pink with the shame of it all. Maybe he hears Castiel chuckling as he steps away.

  
  
He's stays tightly clenched until there's the sound of a lock clicking, and the relief has him crying again, more tear tracks down his cheeks. He hears the water trickle into what must be a gutter. He's sure it's disgusting, wonders at Michael seeing him like this, before there's the rumbling of pipes and he feels mercifully warm water cascading over him. Breathing is a bit of a struggle, turning his head as much as possible to avoid it falling into his nose, but once he's in the right position, he tries to relish it. Over far too soon. The room is warm, then, almost unbearably so. He's glad he couldn't help but gulp down some water through his gag, or he'd be parched. He becomes aware of a great deal of sensations, then. The pressure of his restraints. The steady throb of nipple clamps. The prickling heat of all the waxed skin. There's silence, too, which seems strange given how long he's been listening to the other slaves, and the machines. He misses the machine, he realizes. What did Michael say? Withdrawal symptoms? He laughs hysterically into the gag and collapses back even further against the cold metal supporting him. He would love to have something pounding him now, even if he couldn't really have an orgasm from it. He imagines it for as long as he can before the cock cage starts hurting at his renewed arousal. He twitches again and then jolts at the sound of footsteps. Michael? Master? Please, please let it be--  
"Before you start your weeping, let me tell you, this is his instruction. So no need to be sulky at me, bitch," comes Castiel's voice as he steps close, testing the dryness of the skin.

  
  
Dean freezes solid. As if this all hadn't been enough punishment to make him upset? What more could they possibly want to torment him with. He starts whining into the gag as he feels fingers straightening his cock upright, and then he is shocked silent by the feeling of something slick and cold nudging into his slit. He bucks at once, fear overcoming him, adrenaline racing through his system.  
"Stay still, or I'll jam it down all at once," Castiel snaps.  
Dean goes rigidly still, though he's weeping as much as ever. The first inch happens very slowly, cold and metallic. It's a new sensation, a pressure that he has no way of describing except as an intrusion. The pain is sharp and reactive, like his body is fighting so hard to have it gone. He hears Castiel's soft hushing, and then it's further down, and further, stinging and twinging with new pain when he shakes. Castiel must be content with how far it's inserted in, because he just gives it a soft wiggle (Dean cries out anyway) and then fixes it in place. Then gloved fingers travel up to his nipples, touching the clamps gently, and then fixing something to them. There's the soft click of a button pressed, and then, miraculously, soft and full lips pressing into his forehead.  
"You're going to do so well for him," comes the encouraging whisper.  
Then the first electrical shock travels straight down the wires into the deeply imbedded metal sound, across the cockcage itself, his tormented nipples.  
Dean screams.

  
The shocks continue for hours, perfectly routine, every few seconds. His entire body jerks like a puppet, as best it can in the restraints. Everything good is erased from his mind, and eventually all the bad too. It's just him, swimming in the dark silence, and the repetition of agony. Even if he might black out, he's woken to the agony of the next shock, comes to with a choked, hoarse scream. His throat hurts, too, though that's so minor next to the three bright spots of agony. He's all alone with a machine that seems to be breaking his mind apart. He's forgotten why he's here, why he's suffering, and then there's the sound of a door opening. As if a haze is lifted, Dean's mind begins to piece back together.

  
"Hello Dean," Michael whispers. The wreck before him simply shakes, and then arches at another shock, lets out a pathetic and broken cry before sagging back. "Well, your favorite trainer seems to have outdone himself. That must really sting, hm?"  
Dean lets out a soft sound of assent, broken and mewling. He flinches at Michael's faint sound of mirth, but relief overcomes him as he hears the click of a button, and then whimpers as the metallic sound is carefully drawn out, and the nipple clamps are removed from the tortured skin. Worst of all, his traitor body reacts the wrong way to this pain, and arousal dances across him still. He's cried every tear he has, but a dry sob builds up none the less as Michael brushes across his cheek with a thumb.  
"I'm sorry, my darling boy. Didn't realize how bad they'd hurt you. You must be regretting running from me now, right?"  
Dean makes a trapped sound of agreement, a wheezing, desperate plea for relief. His cheek rests heavily into Michael's hand now. Everything is forgotten except Michael as his savior. The pain being gone is a sensation of such vast relief it's almost as wonderful as an orgasm. "Don't worry, Dean. I've made arrangements. You're coming home with me. Even got you a trainer so my pretty little slave settles into his new lifestyle well." Michael's words have a dark smirk beneath them. "I know. I know. You want to be filled up. You must be craving it by now. Don't worry, slave. When we get home, I'm going to wreck that pretty little hole of yours."


	3. Chapter 3

Dean cries even more when his bonds are undone. He's helped out of the stirrups by two trainers, petting him, murmuring supportive words. He'd rubbed his wrists horribly raw jerking about from the electricity, and it hurts more. The pain seems nothing though, because Michael is standing there smiling gently when his blindfold is removed. His hands are cuffed again, into the small of his back, but he's obedient and docile, head dropping to stare at Michael's beautiful leather shoes. Michael signs some fluttering forms that are carried over to him, and both of the orderlies are back again at either side. Probably because he's swaying with exhaustion by now. The gentleness of the hands make him feel childish, but he tries his best to stay at least marginally upright and aware. He's led through a side door, down a flight of concrete steps as he stumbles with exhaustion and the lingering pain. Mercy comes in the form of a metal crate, that he obediently drops to all fours to crawl into, curls up on the soft linoleum base. He arrived in one of these too. Good for transporting slaves, reliable and sturdy. He goes easily to his knees when the trainer touches his back, crawls inside and huddles up as he's hefted into the back of a truck waiting in the underground parking. The door shuts loudly behind him, and the engine starts. He tries valiantly to stay awake, but the rocking motion of the car, and the enveloping darkness seem to offer a relief from the awful day. Without noticing himself slipping, he's asleep.

  
He wakes cradled into silken sheets, his soft cheek pressed into. He stirs just a little, stretches his unbound arms where they're tucked under turned forehead, fingers stretching. His mouth opens in a sleepy yawn.  
"Such a troublemaker. Fast asleep when I wanted you in from the car," he hears, and feels Michael's fingers stroking delicately through his hair.  
Dean startles a little, staring up into grey-brown eyes. Michael's face, Michael's smirk. It's all too much, and he shivers and opens his mouth to apologize before the suited man's legs move. He was leaning over before, and is now straddling his slave, pushing the naked legs apart.  
"Don't apologize, darling boy, I needed to get some work done anyway," Michael whispers sweetly, taking Dean's neck in his hands, pushing his chin up. Dean obliges with a timid blink. "Here we are. Mine again," Michael murmurs, mostly to himself, sliding leather around the exposed neck that Dean only catches a glimpse of. Black. Like those pristine shoes. He shivers and raises his chin with a distinct pride. Michael is stroking his neck now, with the back of his hand. Dean whines and almost feels aroused before there's a pinch of pain. The cock cage is still on? It doesn't seem fair, but he can't say it. He just closes his eyes and trembles in Michael's hands, even as his thighs are spread further. Michael is so close now, breathing in his scent, watching his every reaction with a frightening intelligence. So different to the uncontrolled wrath when Dean had first been caught with stolen ID, returned to his owner. Now, there's a warmth between them. In his heart, Dean knows it's because he's paid for his crimes. Michael leans closer with an overbearing grip, to whisper in his ear.

  
"I bought the facility, Dean. I've seen first hand how well it restores bitches to their roles," Michael confides in his slave, fingers brushing to his nipple, still in agony from how many times the electricity had sparked through them. The long fingernails brush over, and the pain flares sharply. Dean bites his lip but whimpers despite how hard he tries to keep it in. Michael's eyes steady on his, amused and in control. "So many new toys to play with. ...come in, Castiel," he says, leaning up off the bed, voice louder. Dean goes stiff suddenly as the door open, eyes flickering to the man stepping through the doorway. Fear crosses his bright green eyes as he shrinks down into the bed.  
"Hello, sir," comes the gravelly and yet fresh acknowledgment.  
"Oh, dear, you seem to have startled my slave. Never fear, Dean. You do your best for me, Castiel will be nothing but kind. You understand? Speak up, bitch," Michael says, a harshness under his words.  
"I understand," Dean manages, a tremor in his thin voice.  
"Good boy," Michael murmurs, motions Castiel forward with two delicate and precise fingers. “You’re going to be kind for him in return. Now, your ass is mine, Dean, but you let him use your mouth any time he wants.” Dean must shrink back, because Michael has a fist in his hair almost at once, leaning in dangerously close. “Do you have a problem with that, whore?”  
Dean shakes his head furiously, as Michael’s knee presses dangerously close to his crotch, the smooth material giving away dangerous strength beneath.Castiel is frozen like deer in headlights, but he seems almost too eager. Maybe he’s trying to save Dean.  
“Now.”Michael seems shocked to be spoken over, still pinning the pliant, exposed Dean down. Then, his rage seems to fall away. A release of laughter rises from somewhere at the base of his lungs. He leans back, sitting up on his knees, as Dean pants with release.  
“What an asset you’re going to be to me,” Michael says, when he’s stopped laughing deeply. “Over in that package. There’s a pair of cuffs, a spreader bar. Fetch them.”  
Castiel steps over in nervous silence, spots the delivery box, rustles through packaging to bring it over. Speedy, eager. Now, dark blue rests down to Dean’s full lips, thrilled with the future use of them. He barely glances at the bondage gear, all the same patent leather as the collar. Dean can’t look away, though he willingly raises his hands. Maybe it’s not so bad after all. Castiel saved him just now. And he does have such a nice voice. He feels the cuffs tightened, and attached to the headboard, barely flinches as the lock clicks. Michael takes the spreader bar, sets about positioning it, patting Dean’s naked and exposed thighs. “You look so pale. So long inside. All your freckles stand out like constellations in the countryside, kiddo,” his master whispers, kissing the bare knee. Dean shivers again, this time with sudden arousal. Michael is much more businesslike when he straightens up, looks straight at Castiel. “You should take off your shirt. Let Dean see.”

Castiel freezes, looking cornered for a moment, and then reaches and efficiently sheds the outer layer of uniform. Dean has to suck in his breath to keep from gasping. The smooth tanned skin is beautiful, certainly, but under the high-buttoned collar was hidden the scars that could have only come from a low, painful metal collar. Castiel’s hands rise at once to cover it.  
Michael laughs again, but with less humor. “He earned his way out, Dean. It’s possible for even you, if you just behave. You’re not going to be a pretty little boy forever.”  
Dean gazes up with something like admiration, as Castiel’s hands lower. They stare in silence at each other. Michael’s smirk rises. A fiery hope kindles in Dean’s chest. He could get out of here, one day, without risking hurting Michael like he did. Could see his little Sammy again. Castiel did it, why couldn’t he? He jumps slightly as Castiel leans down, two fingers extended, brushing over Dean’s lips, pushing them apart and lingering in the warm wetness within.  
“I bet you’ve missed his mouth, hm?” Michael prompts, and Castiel nods, steps forward. He glances up at Michael for permission, and finding it, kneels down on the bed, picking Dean’s head up and bringing it to his lap. Almost at once, Dean’s mouth parts, ignoring the awkward angle to try and open the fly with his teeth. He so desperately needs Castiel to like him. Castiel pets his cheek gently (another approval seeking glance at Michael) and opens his own fly, pull his member out and guides Dean towards it. His deft fingers slide through Dean’s hair. Despite Castiel’s usual control, he gasps at the sensation. Better than last time, even. Heavenly.

Dean is concentrating on the blow job to the extent that he doesn’t notice Michael slicking his fingers from a small jar, casting it aside. The slave’s eyes are all focus, sucking in deeply through his nose, tongue brushing the underside of Castiel as he tries to take more, deep down his slippery throat. His wrists strain in the cuffs as he feels Michael’s finger at his tight hole.  
“…maybe I should have asked them to prep you a little more,” Michael whispers with a smirk as he presses the digit in slowly. Dean is shaking and writhing, the cock cage smarting as he enjoys his position, as the arousal builds like a hot blossom in his belly. The finger slides in another inch, and Michael is impatient, slips another in side by side. Now, very deliberately, he scissors and stretches, just for a handful of second, letting Dean rock himself back onto the fingers best he can. He doubts Michael is going to let him come. Being filled up is still something. The fingers jab at the nerves within, and Dean now moans and breathes furiously at Castiel, lips coated in saliva and precum. “The perfect whore, isn’t he? Trying to stuff himself full at both ends,” Michael whispers, arousal coloring his voice in deep, textured black. His other hand crosses to play with Dean’s sore nipples, but with how aroused he is, he seems to enjoy the pain too. Castiel gasps again, and Michael’s eyes snap up to his now-employee’s face.  
“Careful, Dean,” Michael whispers, squeezing the red numb between his pointer and thumb as he drives the fingers in deeper. “You want to get us off at the same time. Slaves who don’t do as they’re told get sent back to be retrained.”  
  
Dean obediently stops the frantic suction, simply rocks back and forward to encourage Castiel to set a pace to fuck his mouth at. He can feel Michael’s fingers withdrawing, tenses with delight at what he knows is coming. A long, thick cock to fill him up. It’s not been so long, only days, but he’s missed it like he’s been drowning. That’s what that place does to you. Wipes out everything else but the memory of being fill. He tries to spread his legs even wider, but the spreader stops that. His eyes flick down, watching Michael shrug off the suit jacket, open his fly. He keeps himself mostly concealed until he’s between Dean’s legs, raising his slave's hips with careless ease, slicking himself up. Dean feels the skin stretch around Michael's slicked head as it presses hard into the tight, hot hole. A struggle to force his way in, at first, a fight for dominance over Dean's very body. Michael wins, Michael always wins. Dean's air is forced out from his lungs as he feels the warm stretch opening him up. His knees twitch, choking for a moment as he rocks against it. Not enough preparation, he knows, but he likes the burn in this state of hyperarousal. He opens his eyes to see Castiel watching his reaction. The trainer's eyes again, simultaneously praising him for taking his master's cock so well, and degrading him for his enjoyment. Dean rocks eagerly back against Michael, feeling the hard flesh forcing a place inside him, listening to the wet friction as his hole is split further open. It nudges against his insides, and the fullness has that hot, sharp pleasure as Michael expertly nudges along his prostate. He cries out again, and Castiel thrusts between his wet and swollen lips to gag the sound, knowing the boy is too well trained to bite or scrape. Now, Michael lies against him, forcing his slave to raise his knees, bent double with how the spreader bar presses into his chest. His owner nuzzles against the dark collar, and then bites harshly at Dean's exposed neck as he thrusts again. Another cry, at the spark of pain and pleasure, at how Michael's hip digs into the tender flesh of his restrained, pulsing cock. His eyes close, and he just relishes the humanity and the proximity. How could he have ever wanted to be anywhere else?  
  
  
He's startled from his reverie by Michael biting again, control slipping as he begins the dangerously violent fucking. He's still angry at his slave, and he's letting him know it. Dean enjoys his punishment, though, he's been craving it. He tries to accommodate Castiel too, thrusting into his mouth and gripping his hair. The wide, pretty blue eyes are glazed with pleasure, now. Michael smirks for a moment as he looks up.  
"Your mouth is so good, boy. He's so lucky he's with us now," Michael mutters in Dean's ear, causing him to shiver all over. His master pinches a red nipple hard as he pushes in again, giving over to pleasure, and to Dean's mixed cries of pleasure and pain. Castiel is so close to getting off, Dean can tell, and he only moves to encourage Michael's orgasm, grinding down against him and letting his body be used. Michael is faster and faster as Castiel positions himself to thrust down Dean's throat. No more speaking, nobody is capable of it. Just hard breathing from the two men taking their fill of the beautiful slave. Dean's brutalized, broken moaning as it becomes too much for him, and he drifts into a hypnotized trance of sensation. He feels Castiel come on his lips, his tongue, his cheek. It's hot, viscous, bitter where he tastes it. Still, it only feeds Dean's fervor, and moans and closes his eyes, rocking back and forth on the bed under Michael's pace. His arms hang loosely behind his head as he's bitten again, his neck now marked all over with dark blotches, red lines of the teeth showing stark against the freckled skin. Before Castiel can move away, or apologize, Michael lets out a low growl of pleasure and finishes, lips stuck in a snarl for a few seconds. There's a faint trace of sweat on his brow, staring down at Dean's twisted features, streaked with the white mess Castiel left on him. Then, all at once, Michael laughs. Not a loud sound, just a solid chuckle of amusement as he rolls off, fixing his clothing closed, Castiel taking the cue to do the same thing. Dean breathes hard as all attention on him is gone, leaving him desperate and shaking. Maybe he doesn't get an orgasm, he thinks, as Michael straightens up off the bed.  
  
  
"Take him to his room and come back in. I have more questions about your facility," Michael says, to Castiel, flat and full of calm authority. Wouldn't be able to tell they'd been sharing the same bitch mere seconds ago. Michael cards fingers through his hair, till it sits flat, and then tilts his head and waits for Castiel to take the cuffs off the headboard, pull Dean upright and reattach them at the small of his back. Dean is immediately filled with a thrill of fear. His room, and not next to Michael in the bed? Did he not do well enough? Will he ever be allowed his release? He doesn't get the answers, just gets a sharp tug from Castiel to march him out of the room, still completely naked and shivering, cock pitifully swollen and discolored where it bobs with his movements. He almost opens his mouth to ask, but thinks the better of it quickly at Castiel shows an understanding of the mansion's layout as he guides him down to the elevator. Luckily, it's late, and there's nobody about. It feels like coming home, seeing the metal door covered in complex security measures. He'd been at lunch when he'd made a break for it. New he couldn't get out of this room. He's almost relaxed when Castiel opens the door and shoves him in, but surprise makes him jolt upright at once. In the middle of the floor, where his bed used to be, is one of the machines from the facility. A hose in the corner, too. But Dean can't look away from the huge dildo attachment, gut clenching with fresh arousal, realizing he did miss it after all.  
“Your master was having this installed for you, boy. You should enjoy it, because it's how you’re going to get off from now on,” Castiel whispers from beside, in the sensitive skin of his ear. Like electricity, but in a good way. Castiel is shorter than him, just, Dean realizes, from the depth of his fascination. Then there's the strong hands in his back, pushing him to the floor. Dean's overpowering need for release makes him perfectly pliant, a little semen dribbling out of his abused hole even as he presents it, placing his hands where he knows they're fastened. Castiel seems to enjoy the willingness, carefully straps him down, gags him, fastening every strap up tight before he pulls the machine forward, clicks it into position so that the head is just sitting at Dean's loose, prefucked hole. He stops, then. "Forgetting something, aren't I?" he mutters, and then reaches down between Dean's legs, and with a hopeless and grateful cry of relief, the cock cage is unlocked and set aside.  
  
  
Castiel steps back, remote in hand, gazing down at Dean's restrained, vulnerable body with lust and awe. He doesn't say anything, even though the green eyes taking him in are no longer filled with that venom and rage. Devotion, he sees. Maybe not to him specifically, but to Michael, and to Michael's training regime. It fills him with a twisted pride, and he likes how Dean's face lights up as the machine's huge attachment slides easily into his hole, a huff of relief from the slave. There's resistance from the boy's body, yes, but he seems satisfied by the punishing pace, by the brutal and relentless machine. It bottoms out, leaving Dean whining and close to an orgasm denied for so long, and then slides out again with a slick sound of friction, as Dean tries to clench down to keep it inside him. Needs more. Like the machine (or Cas) can tell, the pace ramps up. He's so oversensitive that it's uncomfortable, but it would be worse if he had nothing filling him up at all. He pants and whines against his gag, hips twitching with each new mechanical push splitting him open, forcing his ass to take more and more.  
“…you enjoy this now, slave. I’ll see you in the morning,” Castiel murmurs, leans down. The machine is in full throttle now, and Dean squirms and cries out in hopeless pleasure. He feels warm lips on his cheek as the first orgasm comes. His prone form spasms, chest shaking, ribs straining as he screams out with relief and pleasure. The machine fucks him right through it as he watches Castiel stand to leave the mansion’s basements. Tears dribble down his cheeks as the door clangs behind him, not sadness but relief. He knows this is where he's meant to be.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments. You guys are always inspiring. I thought I'd add something extra, just under 2 years down the line.
> 
> edit, 2017: Heads up to any long time readers, you're not losing it, I changed Dean's age. I was underage when I wrote this, but it retrospectively makes me uncomfortable.

Dean is mindlessly shaving over the small, metal sink when the door opens abruptly. The buzz of the electric razor stops, falls out of his hands as he turns, taut posture relaxing the moment he recognizes the man behind.  
"Hey, Cas. What's up?"  
"It's  _sir_. Why the hell are you using that thing again?"  
"I prefer a little stubble," Dean says lazily, turning back to the mirror, meeting Cas' eyes in the circle of glass. The slave bathroom is nothing fancy, perhaps as a reminder of status. "Again, what's up?"  
"Michael prefers you waxed. You're not getting any younger."  
"On behalf of biology, I'm so very sorr--"  
"Enough!" The word is out unexpectedly sharply. Dean barely has time to react before Castiel has him by the heavy collar, the same black leather collar. It's worn from years of use, softer, but tough enough to stop Dean's breath as he's shoved face first into the wall. Old training kicks in, and his knees seem to almost give out. He feels young and broken. He wants to blurt out an apology, but speaking out of turn would only make this worse. Oh, he'd got too comfortable with Castiel. Far, far too comfortable. Inevitably, he'd push his trainer too far.  
"You forget where you are, slave. You forget what I could do to you if Michael knew a _fraction_ of the attitude you throw at me behind closed doors," Castiel hisses, snarl up on his face in a way it hasn't been for what seems like years. His lips are inches from Dean's ears, every kettle hiss of an 's' making the bitch jump like he were once again attached to a live wire. Green eyes flicker up in the mirror, filled with dread, but he doesn't even make eye contact before Castiel jumps back, dropping him suddenly. Dean is unbalanced, and all but falls over the sink, shaking, pulling himself up and frantically trying to hide the electric razor.  
Castiel watches, features softening like rain on sand. His thin fingers press into temples for a moment, an unspoken curse on his lips. "Don't... don't be like this. I shouldn't have yelled. You just can't ever do that in front of him, you understand, boy? Dean?" he says the name like a silent plea, and then seems to regret the affection laced into the single syllable. "If you don't act like a good bitch, I have to train it into you again. You remember how that was. I know you do."  
"I was very disrespectful, sir. I will never speak to you li--" Dean begins to mutter, still not daring to look up.  
"Don't say never." Castiel cuts in. A look of frantic worry follows, hidden in the creases of the dark brows. Again, too much affection. "Michael wants you. If he asks, for God's sake, tell him you're being waxed this afternoon."  
"Yes, sir."  
"And..." the older man trails off, fixing his disordered appearance. A suit. Not as nice as Michael's, but still expensive. He seems to forget he was speaking, watching Dean's focused features, the slightly open lips.  
"...Cas?" the slave prompts nervously, urgently waiting to go.  
"You're not that old. Barely a man, I'd say," Castiel says under his breath, trying to convince himself as much as anyone. His frown cements itself, and with no more to say he is gesturing Dean on his way.  
  
  
Whatever momentous conversation Dean might have expected, there's nothing extraordinary awaiting upstairs. Michael seems barely interested, sitting behind his desk typing and occasionally skimming a dense binder lying open before him. The man of the house makes two distinct hand gestures, small and showing no urgency. Strip and kneel between my legs. Dean complies with practised expedience, shuffling closer on his knees, too tall to fit in place quite comfortably. One of the new slaves would fit here better, Dean thinks disparagingly. The realization is followed by a stab of jealousy, right in his lower guts, twisting like some sort of internal brand. A new aspect of an anxiety that is never fading. He tries to keep them out of his mind as he crosses his wrists in the small of his back as he's supposed to, using his mouth to open Michael's zipper. The skinny, albino boy with his striking white curls. The more beautiful dark one with wide amber eyes. Yin and yang, it occurs to Dean, though he doubts highly there's anything spiritual about the choices. Michael cares about aesthetics, primarily. Probably liked the visual contrast. Probably makes them play with each other. His lip is curled slightly as he ducks down, but Michael isn't looking to care. His master's cock feels so familiar and natural that Dean could do this whole thing from rehearsed instincts, but he won't. He's expendable now, so he has to be fantastic and unpredictable or Michael will simply trade him away into much worse work. He swallows it deeper, trying his best to let go the acid thoughts before he makes himself sick. Michael tastes familiar. Hot and heady, Dean feels the momentary heat travelling down between his legs (still, after all these years, he loves giving head) before the clamp of the cock cage stops any pleasant sensation dead. Michael doesn't make a sound, though Dean can hear the typing slowing. Good. Pay attention to me, you bastard. He chides himself immediately for even thinking that. He really  _is_  getting disrespectful.  
  
  
Michael's hips gyrate ever so slightly, but it seems like praise to Dean, who is even more eagerly sucking at his master's length. His tongue slides flat up a vein, curling underneath his head, lips slippery all the way down again. And again, wet and rhythmic. His body is with the movement too, heart racing and spine arching. For these brief seconds, there's the ecstasy of success in the boy's eyes. He forgets about the cock cage, forgets about being confined where the new boys are free. Forgets about the painful regiment of nightly abuse that Michael has never once relented from. All he cares about is the reaction his perfected worship is eliciting.  
"Mhmm," Michael grunts, typing stopped altogether now. He has Dean's hair in a vicelike grip in a second, hand shooting out like a striking snake. Dean's mouth falls open at the burst of pain, and then Michael is finishing across his open mouth, his tongue behind the white teeth. Dean swallows hard on instinct and stares up, meeting Michael's dark and metallic gaze. There's a harshness between them now. A grating, painful harshness.  
"I'm done, whore. You may leave."  
The words are like a blow to Dean, still kneeling beneath this great figure, drying cum dribbling down his chin. He blinks as his eyes fill with hot anguish, nods, stands as quickly as he can. He bows to leave, and Michael is already typing again. The boy has almost reached the door before Michael's bored voice drifts over.  
"I know it's a few hours early, but tell Castiel to set you up on the machine and then come up. He's still directing Lachlan for me."  
Dean has turned, another hit of unbridled jealousy mingled with shame. "Yes, master," he forces himself to intone. The voice he hears in his ears sounds absolutely foreign. Castiel, too. Well, what does it matter? Castiel thinks he's a failure too. He knows Michael is only telling him as a way of punishment.  
"I suppose you may eat first," Michael murmurs, unambiguously bored. "The machine's lowest setting. Can't have you getting off after that ...lacklustre performance."  
"Yes, sir," Dean whispers. Why didn't you get one of the other fucking slaves up to suck your cock? If I bore you so much, why don't you just wipe your hands of me?  
"Don't mumble, Dean, you know I hate that. That's all."  
  
  
Dean cries in the kitchenette, over the expensive packaged meal. He makes sure his back is to the security cameras, fingers twitching in a brutal grip of his dinner tray. Sandwiches, a vacuum sealed fruit salad. His name on a neatly printed label, the date below it so that there's no mistaking the freshness. Still, it's the date. A point of reference. And today's a special reference to Dean. A birthday, not that anyone would give a shit. His food is all tailored for optimum nutrition, relentlessly healthy and expensive. Some of the kitchen staff like him, so sometimes there will be thicker pieces of meat, sometimes even something baked, in violation of the strict diet he knows Michael has him on. No cake today though. Tears blur in his eyes as he pulls open the plastic packaging with clumsy fingers. The meal tastes wet and salty with the tears dribbling down his lightly stubbled chin. He forces himself to finish all of the fruit (he knows someone might go through the garbage to check) and tries to subtly wipe his eyes with the napkin before he stands to toss the tray into the trash.  
It sounds hollow as it slides down the metal chute. It reminds Dean of his escape, and he almost smiles as he realizes that all of the fittings are smaller now. What used to be a memory that evoked only regret and misery, now Dean's single achievement in this place. He showed Michael, didn't he? ...maybe he does need to be retrained. He really hates this whole goddamn place. Besides, his plan had been noble. Trying to break out to see his family. He doesn't even know that they're still alive these days. He tries not to think too hard about that, though. Now, if he tried to make a break for it, Michael wouldn't send him to be retrained. He'd be hauled off like a violent stray, shot, buried without a moment's regret. The thought doesn't stir up more tears, with how resigned he feels now. He's ready to speak to Castiel without faltering, clinging, crying. Maybe Cas can still respect him. Dean indulges himself that Cas is fond of him. After all, he talks about his past with Dean, doesn't he? Asks personal questions. Sometimes it seems like a friendship. Especially now that Castiel doesn't order any sort of sexual acts, just waits for Dean to offer. Dean's sure that Castiel will never tell his employer that much. It brightens the boy's mood just the slightest as he knocks on Castiel's hardwood door.  
  
  
"Dean," comes the gravelly voice far too quickly, and from behind him instead.  
Dean startles, spinning and backing into the doorframe. "Jesus, Cas, don't give me a heart attack like--" he cuts himself short the playful rebuke, remembers Castiel's cold tone in the bathroom earlier.  
"You're still here," Castiel murmurs, not seeming annoyed in the slightest by the flippancy or the too-familiar name. A brief, but genuine smile appears.  
"I'm not exactly free range meat, you know," Dean returns with pleasant sarcasm, though his eyes stop wrinkling with amusement. He quickly remembers what he's supposed to be doing. Michael won't want to wait around. "He wants me on the machine. ...lowest setting for the night," he adds, jaw clenching. Can't lie about that. Michael would know, somehow. Maybe he has the whole place wired. But then he'd surely know about all this flirting going on. Maybe he genuinely doesn't give a shit about what I do with my loyalty, Dean thinks painfully. He swallows against the anxiety, and it goes down his throat like a razor blade.  
"What did you do now, boy?" Castiel says, happiness gone instantly too, a disappointed tone of trainer. Not a friend.  
Dean shrugs hopelessly. The still red-rimmed eyes travel across something unseen behind Castiel. Close to tears again. Weak. So fucking weak. "You're training Lachlan tonight," he adds bitterly, and then realizes how much emotion he let into the words. Regret floods him, and a blush plasters itself across his downturned face.  
Castiel must not notice. The trainer lets out a low, frustrated sound and then grabs the slave's arm with unforgiving purpose, steering him down the stairs. Dean blinks more tears away.  _Happy fucking birthday to me._  
  
  
  
Dean is pliant and despondent as Castiel straps him in as usual, no anticipated pleasure as the machine jerks to life. Castiel is pissed off, obviously, rough and forceful with angling the bitch down and winching him into place. He thinks Dean was acting up, and right after he'd told him off for that. Why else would he be made to endure a night of this? He'll fall asleep, sure, but he'll be woken up time and time again, horny and desperate. He can scream and thrash all he wants. The room is soundproof; the straps unforgiving; the machine unrelenting. Perfectly engineered to make Dean feel whatever Michael wants. Right now, Michael wants a miserable and worked up slave. The cowering bitch doesn't have any choice but to take it. And take it he does. The massive dildo enters Dean, slowly to avoid tearing, a nudging at the soft pink skin. At a steady pace it works, spreading him open coldly and efficiently. So slick and so filling, pushing further till the girth itself is as much of a stretch as the length. Thick and unforgiving, spearing the quivering slave down into his restraints. He should be used to feeling it inside him, but he never is. So much of it. Feels like it's filled him to the limit with how fucked out he feels. Maybe it shows against his slender stomach. He couldn't bear to look and see whether that nudging cock appeared, distending his inside, filling him to the belly with it's brutal pounding. No fucking tonight, though. No action, just an annoyingly undeniable throb. A vibration that twists his body to pieces, just because it's so goddamn constant. An itch, a tingle. Maybe the first time with it, he could have got off, but the machine is too good for that. Monitored constantly, he'll be lucky if he even approaches an orgasm. Dean sheds a few more tears more as the cock cage is removed (why? that's just making it worse) and is grateful for today's blindfold. The wrong angle to hit his prostate, and Dean doesn't even bother trying to twist and get fulfilment. It's impossible, as he knows from plenty of nights of excruciating experience. Punishment from the machine is calculated, and all the more vicious for it. He can't beat this system. The low buzz starts up in his ass, and he'd swear loudly if Cas wasn't in such a bad mood. He'd probably get the drool gag on. Or worse.  
  
  
Castiel doesn't say goodbye. He hears the door closed, knows he has more time than usual, and lets out a frustrated howl of misery, that becomes sobs soon enough. He's painfully hard, erection throbbing and unable to contact anything with how he's positioned with his ass raised. His entire body prickles, nipples hard and longing for any contact, chin raised and jaw tight with frustration. The tension is unbearable, and it's not going to stop until his trainer returns. The boy closes his eyes behind the blindfold, desperately tries to ignore the stretch inside him, and tries to sleep. He'll have dreams about sex, always does, but he's fairly sure he won't be allowed to get anywhere with them. The monitor will know. Somehow. He cries and cries and eventually it peters out into an unhappy and fitful sleep.  
  
  
  
He wakes from a pleasant dream, Castiel over him, a hand on his throat and a hand down his pants, pushing him into a soft bed. It surprises him, to be awake, but some part of him must have been aware it was no more than a dream. A good dream, but not  _that_  good, right? Why would he have been woken by--  
"Hello, Dean," comes a rumbling voice near his ear. He jumps, though as always doesn't go far. The laugh that follows is mostly just amusement, but something else. Dark exhilaration, inky black and full of life.  
Dean opens his mouth to chew him out, and remembers where he is. He's not really ashamed, can't be after all this time, but there's something degrading in every way about being at the mercy of this infernal machine. Which, when he takes a second to think about it, he could swear is moving. That's not right. Nobody screws with Michael's regime.  
"You're old, slave."   
"I'm twenty-one," comes Dean's immediate, indignant response. He doesn't think before he speaks, and it usually gets him into serious trouble. Not today.  
Castiel laughs in that same unhinged way. "That's old, whore. Too old to be good for Michael."  
There's definitely movement now, nudging back and forth, speeding Dean's breathing and easing him towards an unexpected orgasm. And yet the words shatter him, make pleasure impossible. Too old? What is he if Michael doesn't want him? What's his purpose, his place? Who is going to--  
"Don't worry, I still like you, boy," Castiel cuts off the panic with a nearly hysterically happy tone. The distraction of the pistoning, the occasional brush of his prostate makes him dizzy. Too dizzy and foggy to be thinking fast. Still, it clears enough for Dean to put two and two together, and make sense of Castiel's crazed manner.  
  
  
  
"You bought me--"  
"I was _gifted_ you," Castiel corrects, quickly. "Still all legal. Had me sign it all over just now. You're all mine now, Dean. At least till your contract runs out."  
My contract is going to _run out_? Dean's amazement is followed by more amazement. Like a drowning man in surf, he barely gets down one breath of understanding before he's knocked down by a second. No chance to emotionally process any of it along the way, but the implications underneath (not going to be sold to some sick fuck, not going to be raped and used, and someday, freedom) make it seem as if the bondage he's in is nothing more than tissue. He breathes in the sweetest air he's ever tasted, a wide and irrepressible smile lighting up. The machine continues, deeper, harder. Dean is struggling for air now. Cas isn't giving him time to think. He's enjoying watching this quivering, beaming being below him. Dean's muscles show behind the straps, ass rippling faintly, pushing his way back to get deeper penetration.  
"I can do whatever I want with you, boy," comes Castiel's voice, close into the shell of his ear. "Michael doesn't want you, so you're mine. Mine to keep. My boy." Castiel's voice is shaking with emotion now, the likes of which Dean has scarcely heard from him. "...and from now on, this machine is strictly for pleasure. No more business between us," Cas whispers, touching the boy's face very softly, loosening the blindfold. Dean scarcely makes eye contact before he lets out a shaking cry of pleasure, coming right on the machine's cue. The cheeks are flushed, soft as velvet, the eyes wide and full of hope as Dean lets out a few more strangled gasps, the machine continuing for a few seconds, stopping as Castiel reaches into his pocket to the ever present remote.  
  
  
There's something painfully romantic about the touch, to Dean at least, regardless of the surroundings and the sick situation in which they might have met. Regardless of how much unfathomable hatred he'd thought he felt for his sadistic trainer, he can't draw up any of those emotions. Just relief. He can't cry any more, but his body shakes as he leans into the hands, feels Castiel stroke his hair and loosen the straps.  
"Good boy. How would you like to sleep in a bed, huh? I'll clean you up in my shower, and then you can come and sleep in bed with me. That's our place from now on. Still have to work you know," Castiel murmurs, fixing the slave's sweaty hair. He fiddles with a key, and Dean breathes faster as Michael's collar is unbuckled, set aside. Castiel rubs the delicate skin of his now bare neck with lightest fingertips.  
"Wanna get a new one. From you," Dean slurs, smiling with exhausted relief.  
"A minute in and you're already ordering me about," Castiel says, eyes dancing as he helps Dean up, an affectionate arm around. "I suppose I should get used to this, boy."  
"Mhm."  
Castiel doesn't reply to that, doesn't speak even when Dean falls asleep at the top of the staircase. A damp cloth to clear away the perspiration and then the semen and lube, and Dean is hefted over into soft bedding. Even in sleep he shuffles into Castiel's arms, instinct taking over. He knows where he belongs.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Michael seems to lose interest in Castiel shortly after he lost interest in Dean. His two newer acquisitions are trained into docile, unflinching, selfless sex toys. Dean no longer envies them, now that he's not even wearing Michael's collar. It's a thin, soft silver chain instead. More like jewelry than a mark of ownership. Dean is only a little disappointed. Castiel spends the last few months of the year working a few hours a week for Michael, and spending most of the rest of the time with Dean, who is essentially confined to his quarters. Michael didn't explicitly forbid him from using the grounds, or the gym, or the cafeteria, but Dean gets glowered at by the security staff, who all still resent him for the trouble he caused with his first escape. He no longer feels safe knowing Michael's complete dominion over them doesn't extend to his own protection. Castiel doesn't have anything close to the same influence. He's just an employee too, and by the end of the year, not even that. Michael neglects to renew his contract, unsurprisingly. Dean can see the tension it causes in Castiel, and he feels it in the harsher ways in which Castiel fucks him. Castiel fucks him a lot more when he's angry. Castiel ties him to the bed, for the first time in weeks, and bites up his neck until it bruises. He takes his ankles, and makes sure that Dean comes from just prostate stimulation. He praises him afterward, but Dean just seems relieved to be an outlet.

  
Without Michael's hawkish oversight, the relationship falters and stringent hierarchy disintegrates. In some part of Dean's worldview, he is aware that Castiel owns him, and dictates his immediate future. He is also faintly aware that through some law, he is entitled to freedom after some unspecified period of dutiful servitude. He's not sure if the black mark on his record has extended that time frame. If he asked Castiel, he would get a non-answer, and Castiel would be angry with him for weeks. Cas hasn't even _mentioned_ it since that night he changed hands. Cas gets angry about questions, like when he broached the subject of getting a job when they move out. He doesn't think Cas has a job lined up, not with how specific his skill set is. He doesn't _want_ Cas to get that sort of job, either. Part of it is jealousy, and fear that Castiel will revert to that merciless tormentor he faintly remembers, and another probably even bigger part of it is his ethical qualms. He was born free. He still thinks slavery is wrong, and is starting to acknowledge that what happened to him was sexual torture. He can't really stomach the thought of it happening to anyone else, let alone at Cas' hands. It's why he's absolutely livid when Castiel comes in, grinning, talking about his new contract with Michael's company, interstate. Management. Dean keeps most of his feelings to himself, out of habit, but the way his jaw sets and he resists the hand petting his hair tells Castiel everything he needs to know.

  
Castiel doesn't talk much about his past, no matter how delicately Dean approaches it. Non-answers and scowls, for the most part. Dean knows that he was born a slave, and worked in a factory until adolescence. And then when that went under, he was repackaged as a household slave, probably chosen for his looks. Dean is pretty sure he worked in the kitchen, and then his contract was bought out by the Liberation Department. It seems a painful part of Castiel's past, even if Dean suspects that Cas was more of a butler than whatever _he_ is. A whore. A pet. The conditioning has worn off enough that being called either of those things makes him angry. Cas is usually very sweet to him, if he's being fair. He brings him books, shows him how to watch television, lets him out onto the high balcony overlooking the expansive garden, stretching off to the disguised barbed wire fences. Very escape proof, the whole facility. A lot of modifications thanks to him. He tries not to let his ego get away with him.

  
There's no argument to be had about Castiel's new job, even if slaves _could_ argue back. Castiel senses his discomfort and simply elects to ignore it. He packs up the few possessions that actually belong to him, begins the arduous process of arranging on site accommodation at the facility. His hours are going to be too variable for a commute to be plausible. Besides, Castiel has never lived in a house of his own. It's much more common for employees to stay on site. A remnant of the entrenched systems of slavery, no doubt. Dean barely gets any warning before Castiel is leading him out of the house that has come to be home. A leash in public. That's the accepted way. Better than a crate. Dean almost flinches when Castiel swipes his security code, and he starts shaking violently once they're outside, even if they are still on the grounds. A driver, probably an employee rather than a slave, opens the door for Castiel, who slides across the seat. Dean goes to kneel on the floor, and Cas pulls him up into a car seat, buckles him up, and reaches across to close the door. He doesn't seem annoyed by it. He seems elated as the car rolls off, staring out the window at the manicured grounds passing by.  
"A car picking us up, I will never get used to that. I guess it's true, then, I'm an executive. You want something to eat, Dean? ...Dean?"  
Dean is still shaking, staring straight ahead at the partition.  
"Are you cold?" Cas asks. It's a warm day, and most slaves are kept topless to show their collars, but the car is air-conditioned. He reaches across, petting Dean's hair, running a hand across his chest and feeling the heart racing beneath the ribs. "Dean, calm down."  
"Trying."  
"I'm not asking. _Calm down_."  
For whatever reason, the order helps. Dean spaces out enough to keep from panicking, and listens to Castiel babble about the state of the art facility they were headed to.

  
The moment they get there, Dean is on edge again. He flinches at every gaze from every security guard, which seems to dour Castiel's good mood. Castiel meets a tall woman in a lab coat with a fake red smile, who looks Dean over and murmurs unwanted appreciation, and gushes about Michael's taste. Dean tries to keep his chin up when spoken to. If he showed his true relationship with Castiel, Cas would probably get fired on the spot. He can't help shaking through the long introduction and polite discussion of technical specifications. Cas is invited on a tour, but says that he'd like to clean up first. It's half true. He doesn't want to expose an already jittery slave to that. When Castiel drops Dean off into the apartment, he's panicking too much to be trusted with himself. Castiel pushes him down onto his belly, uses some of the restraints from the facility downstairs to lock his feet together, and his arms in the small of his back. He stays in that position for hours, the anxiety getting worse, until Castiel walks in, humming. He unlocks all the restraints, kissing Dean's hair and murmuring tired reassurances. He sets out a dinner for them both, but Dean can't stomach anything, even if it looks good. Cas got him regular food, not slave portions. He picks at the baked potatoes and picks up the empty dishes to throw out before Castiel can see.  
  
  
He doesn't sleep at all that night, even with Castiel breathing deeply into the back of his neck, arms wrapped around his waist. He's not sure if it's all in his head, or he can hear the machines from here.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, because I didn't think I could get it all in one. Next chapter is on its way.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean barely sleeps the next night either. Castiel leaves first thing in the morning, while Dean lies still, unmoving, keeping his eyes firmly shut. When the door closes, and Dean cautiously arises, he finds a note about how to turn the television on, and the mention that there's food in the refrigerator. He could have figured that out by himself. He stares at the sign off. Just, 'Cas'. No indication of affection. Probably meaningless anyway. Castiel isn't an overly emotional guy. He feels terrible, without eating or sleeping, but he doesn't feel like doing either to start to fix himself. He walks around the apartment, finding the front door and windows locked, but everything else opens at his touch. Out of the window he can see fields, mostly, a couple of hills in one direction with a spattering of houses on it. Free men and women. Probably rich, judging by the size of them. The interior of the apartment is all modern shades of grey, unlike the untapped luxury of Michael's home. It all looks expensive, though. There's gym equipment in one room, set up in front of another huge television and a badly stocked bookshelf. The bathroom has an actual bath, as well as a shower. All in all, a comfortable sort of prison, Dean thinks, and then mentally chastises himself for it. He's become the ungrateful brat Michael always called him. He sits staring at a wall most of the day, and then when it reaches mid-afternoon, he creeps over to the fridge, takes what he considers two meals worth of food, and sets it out in front of him on the table. Individual sealed cups of cereal, and individual sealed jugs of milk. A sealed sandwich. Why had Cas wanted this job? It's like they never left Michael's clutches. Maybe Cas doesn't see Michael that way. He seems happy to be part of this shitty system. Dean drinks from the bottled water, hand shaking. He picks up the food, and carefully flushes it all down the toilet, breaking the sandwich up into little pieces and scattering it. He sits in the shower for at least an hour, amazed that the water never runs cold, and then lies on the bed trying not to cry.  
  
  
Castiel gets home very late. Dean is awake, of course. Sleeping isn't on the table while his guts are knotted this irreparably. Castiel sets out a dish, this time lasagna, which should make Dean's mouth water and his heart skip a beat. Castiel barely waits for him to pretend to enjoy a few mouthfuls before he's on Dean, capturing his mouth into a nearly frenzied kiss. Dean is relieved to be excused, walking backwards with Castiel to the bed, trying to pull his tie off. Castiel growls low in his throat at Dean taking the initiative at all. It makes Dean feel even more sick. Cas normally enjoys that. Castiel uses his extra weight to shove Dean onto the grey carpeted floor, rather than the bed, picking up the abandoned cuffs and pushing Dean's hands together in his back. Dean goes limp. He spaces out again, as Castiel preps him with cold, surgical efficiency. Cas doesn't seem to notice that he's barely half-hard. He's too turned on by whatever he spent the day doing. Dean's stomach knots further, and then he can't think about anything but Castiel's fingers digging into his hipbones, and the thick fullness. Not enough prep either. There's that burn that usually forgotten comes with anal sex. He relishes the forgotten sensation. It's a relief, to not have to think. He's definitely not turned on, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he's in a state of nothingness. Perfect. Almost perfect. If Castiel was a bit thicker, a bit more relentless, a bit more mechanical. He shudders, barely noticing as Castiel pulls out, finishing across his back. He feels a little warmth on the twitching fingertips. Cas disappears, cleaning him up with a warm, damp towel, and then kisses Dean up the neck.  
"Let me take care of you now, honey..."  
"I just jerked off. Sorry. You were later than I thought--" Dean lies, softly, stretching into the kisses. The feeling of Castiel's breath on his neck takes him out of the sterile emptiness.  
Castiel makes an annoyed sound. Dean would never have masturbated without permission if he'd been Michael's. Mostly because Michael would have had him in a cock cage. And because he respected Michael's authority. It shatters his post orgasm buzz. Castiel falls asleep unhappy. Dean doesn't sleep at all.  
  
  
Dean pretends to sleep through Cas' departure again. That night, Cas comes in so late that he pretends to be asleep again. He sleeps maybe a few hours that night, but it's more like passing out from exhaustion. He startles himself awake from a nightmare about his time in the facility, and finds Castiel gone. No note. He does half an hour on the treadmill, but barely faster than walking. Everyone gets sick of him. Michael. Cas. He curls up in the shower and cries. He has no energy to speak of, and his will to survive has faded. He barely recognizes himself in the mirror, head spinning. He makes it as far as the lounge room, and faints straight onto his face.  
  
  
Dean comes to in an absolute panic, finding his wrists and ankles restrained, and so much worse, something shoved down his throat making him gag and retch. He bucks wildly, staring up at the white roof, then around the room. Castiel seems relieved to see him wake, stepping over. That relief fades, once it becomes apparent that Dean is aware.  
"I reviewed the footage. You've been flushing meals. Pretending to sleep to avoid me. ...what the Hell is wrong with you?"  
Dean stares up, shaking, eyes pricking with tears. He didn't see any cameras. Why would there be cameras in a private apartment? He tries to speak, but the feeding tube is depressing his tongue flat on the bottom of his mouth. He makes a weak, pitiful sound. Now the IV in his arm hurts a little. He fucking hates needles. His nose hurts, too. He remembers falling onto it. Castiel leans close, teeth bared.  
"You're supposed to be my fucking slave. Do you have any idea how _humiliating_ this is? I just started a new job, Dean," Cas hisses, and then sits down when the nurse enters. At least Dean thinks it's a nurse, until she's putting her hand between Cas' shoulder blades in a gentle massage. Dean immediately wants to kill her.  
"Don't worry. Happens with the whores sometimes, too. Refuse to eat just for the attention. It's a power play."  
Dean imagines his hands around her throat, taking a handful of that red hair and tearing it out of her scalp. Especially because it looks like Cas is actually taking her opinion on board.  
  
  
Dean squirms in the restraints, and she notices and advances on him. Without asking permission, she pulls the thin hospital gown up around Dean's middle. She cups his balls, rolling them between her fingers.  
"Is he intact for some special reason?"  
"His contract will run out," Cas says, exhaustedly.  
"So? He belong to you, now. I personally find it keeps them much more docile. Could be a source of this malcontent. ...but I suppose my facility is very different to yours."  
Dean suddenly realizes what they're talking about enough to cry out, trying to pull out of her hands. You don't get to touch my fucking junk, you don't get to talk about cutting me up. Even if you're Cas' boss. She slaps him, a hard, open hand against his cheek.  
"Abbie!" Cas says, sharply, standing. He flushes when he realizes he used a nickname. "Please don't touch my slave like that."  
"That's your problem. I'm happy to accommodate your tastes, Cas. I'm happy to ignore taboos, because I have seen how efficient you are. But lack of resolve, I consider a personal failing."  
Castiel's jaw goes tight. He stares at Dean, unflinchingly. Then he stares at the wall above him instead. Dean knows which taboos she's talking about. Romantic involvement with a slave is like romantic involvement with a sex toy.  
"You think I should release his contract prematurely," Cas says, softly. Dean is instantly surprised, and a little hurt, that he can do that. And he _hasn't_.  
"That's the nuclear option. If you wish to continue here, and maintain your professional reputation, I could tailor a program specifically for Dean. You would be uninvolved, but you would find Dean where you left him, in your bed at night. Some constraints would be necessary at first, but Dean will accommodate to his new situation quickly. Then we can cut it down to once a week, depending on how much it inhibits your use of Dean."  
"On the machines," Cas says, not sounding pleased in the slightest.  
Dean starts crying again, though he knows any sound he makes will dig himself deeper. If Cas thinks about this, really thinks about it, he'll realize how wrong it is.  
  
  
Castiel doesn't seem to make a decision, which scares the crap out of Dean. He gasps in disbelief, and then chokes when it reminds his body of the huge presence in his throat.  
"I'll think it over," Cas mutters. "I have to make a phone call."  
"I'll let you think. Get some sleep, soon. Dean is under very watchful eyes here," she says softly, and gives Castiel a quick hug before she steps away. Dean glares after her. They must know each other. Maybe from the first facility Cas worked at. He's decided that she's on his list of mortal enemies. He finally makes a soft sound at Castiel, for attention, for the tube out so he can talk. Castiel just glares. Maybe that woman is an ex-lover or something. Maybe Cas wants her. Dean starts hyperventilating as Castiel walks into the bathroom, shutting the door hard. It's quiet enough that Dean can make out the occasional word. A lot of "Yes, sir". And some discussion of contracts, Dean thinks. Finally, he makes out Michael's surname, and his blood runs cold. Michael. He's asking Michael's opinion on what to do with him. He knows the answer to that already. Kill the ungrateful brat, as is your legal right, and wash your hands of the whole fucking mess. Dean can't breathe. Castiel doesn't even say goodbye, doesn't even look at him as he leaves.  
  
  
Dean is unable to sleep again. After indeterminable hours, an actual nurse comes in. He picks up a vacuum sealed bag, opening one corner and squirting the contents down the feeding tube, gripping Dean's jaw tightly to keep him in place. He leaves again, returning with a moulded strap to fasten under Dean's chin, pinning his head. More hours of nothing except Dean crying every so often, running through every good memory he has of Cas, and then the bad ones too. Right back to the beginning. How cruel Cas once was. He thinks he can hear the machines. He must even closer to them. He's not in a regular hospital. This must be where they treat the slaves that are being trained. And then the man returns, pressing a button on the side of the bed. He feels the tug on his ankle restraints, pushing back up towards his body, running mechanically along the thin rails on either side of the bed. He tries to resist, but it's completely hopeless. He curses around the thick tube. Soon, they're almost at his hip level. The hospital gown rides up, folding down the slope of his opened legs, and resting across his stomach. He's sure the nurse can see his cock dangling down past it. He's flushed, and his heart is pounding even more. He feels sick, but he doesn't want to see what happens when he throws up with this in his mouth. He tries to breathe evenly, reserve his energy. For what? Escape? It's so much harder to breathe with something occupying so much of your airway. If he looks down, out of the very bottom of his eyes, he can just see the nurse hanging something else from the IV stand, and trailing a tube across his chest, and down between his legs. Dean puts it together, and a cold sweat prickles out across him. He could use the fucking bathroom. Sometimes Cas would clean him out for specific stuff, but he hasn't had a real enema in a long time. Cas knows I hate them. That confirms it. I'm in someone else's power now.  
  
  
The nurse picks up a tube of lubricant, drizzling it across a black rubber bulb. The gloved hands prod at his hole, forcing a fingertip in despite his hard clench. He whimpers, and the nurse makes an annoyed huff in response, and forces the finger in past the knuckles.  
"I can tell them you weren't being cooperative, if you want," he finally mutters, under his breath.  
Dean thinks of Castiel at once. He shakes his head the fraction of an inch he can, and tries to relax his sphincter enough to allow the stranger's fingers in. They stretch him out, running around the rim. The man seems satisfied, picking up the bulbous nozzle and pushes it in. It takes only a few seconds. It's long enough, but only a couple of inches thick. Dean's taken so much more.  The thought makes him flush again, and his knees try to close helplessly, reminding him of how vulnerable he is now. The nurse steps back, referring a a sheet of what must be instructions, and then picks up a little attachment Dean previously hadn't been able to see. He squeezes the second bulb, and Dean flinches as he feels movement inside him. An inflatable nozzle. This isn't medical necessity. This is torture. The man pumps a few more times, checking the pressure valve, refers to the note again, and then sighs in frustration. For the next minute or so, he's just pumping, and Dean is starting to whine with pain at the inflating presence inside of him. He can feel the solid lump, like it's starting to impact the rest of his internal organs. It must be huge now. It feels like a fucking baseball, even spreading his rim now before the flared base. He screws his eyes shut, relieved to hear the pumping stop. And then there's quiet, the squeak of a nozzle, and there's cool water rushing into his bowels. Dean tears up, letting out a pained whimper, a silent plea for Cas' intervention. Nothing. A feeding tube, a fucking enema, he won't have to get up again except to piss. And as if some higher power answers him, the man hitches the hospital gown up around Dean's middle, and snaps his gloves off. He swiftly puts a clean pair on, picking up a sealed contained, and opening it to pull out a rubber catheter.  
  
  
Dean starts crying and whining again, but there's nothing he can tense up to avoid that sort of intrusion. He hasn't had anything in there since the sound and the electricity. And that was so long ago, at Cas' hands. His mind jumps to Cas. Please. Cas, please, come and save me. I'll be so good. I'll-- his prayers are cut off, by a hand fondling his penis, and wiping it with a cold disinfectant wipe. Maybe a little too much. The fucking nurse is probably getting off on this. He almost pisses himself just to get that motherfucker, but he doesn't know what they'd do to him in retribution. Not to mention the fact that his stomach is seriously cramping up. It feels irritated, like he desperately needs to void his bowels, too. He risks a glance up at the bag, and realizes how close to full it is. He's taken too much already. He can't take more. He can't. He'll burst. While he's distracted, the rubber head is pushed down into his penis, followed by the small bulb. The pain is brilliant, and white hot, unlike the pressure pain his his bowels, and the stretch in his ass. He screams, loudly, choking himself, and then keeps howling as he gags and chokes. It's useless. The nurse pushes it down, inches and inches into his cock that feels like it's been split in two. He starts writhing in the bed, as much as he can, knees shaking, chafing against the restraints as he tries to buck out of them. He lets out another hoarse scream.  
"All done, princess," the nurse says, in a coarse voice, cleaning away the packaging, pulling the second pair of gloves off with a latex snap. Dean glances down, noticing the erection showing beneath the scrubs, and a new horror dawns on him. But the man leaves at once, locking the door beside him. The inside of his cock feels stretched and raw, his ass is still screaming with sharp pain, and worst of all, the enema keeps flowing down into him. He screams his voice away, and then just sobs freely as the water keeps flowing.  
  
  
At least an hour passes, and nobody comes to save him. Dean can't look away from the draining bag. It's down to the last quarter or so, and Dean is starting to think this might actually kill him. He physically can't take any more. His belly is bloated, distending up and pushing his bellybutton out. He looks down, and even from this angle, he can see the swollen flesh. He looks pregnant. He looks like he's having triplets. Quadruplets. He laughs hysterically, and then gasps with pain as the movement in his abdomen jiggles the water. He can hear it sloshing around, and he can feel his asshole fluttering in an attempt to expel it. Not just water. Gotta be some kind of chemical laxative to irritate him this badly. He wants nothing more than to get it all out of him, but nobody is offering that. It wasn't so bad at the first facility surely. He tries to recall it, feeling his cock stiffen inadvertently,  and whimpers at the reminder of the catheter. He tears up yet again at another round of cramping, looks up at the bag. Only a little bit more, Dean. You can do this. But he can't. Sweat runs down into his eyes, mingling with the welling tears. He shifts around as much as the restraints allow, tries to arch his back to get the water to distribute evenly, and is rewarded with debilitating pain, and he blacks out.  
  
  
He wakes up, and the bag is completely empty. His belly is full to the brim, and even though it hasn't burst like he expected it to, it's still aching all over. He can feel the hard ball of the nozzle more acutely, pushed down like it's trying to escape his ass. No chance of that. Not in a million years of straining. That _would_ kill him. He cries, floating off in miserable fantasy before the nurse returns. Probably jerked off to the thought of how much pain he was causing me. The man presses some buttons on the bed, tilting Dean down till he's hanging by the wrist straps. The nurse fiddles with the pump, and suddenly Dean feels the pressure going down inside his aching asshole. His relieved sigh comes a little too soon. The man tugs the deflated plug out of his clenched hole, but he is definitely not going to just release it all in front of this sadist. He tenses up all over, and it hurts, but it's a mental battle. The man has stepped around to the side, patting Dean's belly.  
"There's a grate. Just let it out, girl."  
Dean tries to say 'fuck you', and chokes on the tube once more.  
"Now, whore." The man kneads the pained flesh, and then frowns at Dean's resolve. And leaves. Dean counts it as a victory. The relief afterwards feels like a victory. And then he's left hanging there, even the catheter seeming nearly painless, and the hospital gown has unravelled to give him some dignity. The nurse walks back in, this time with a needle in his hand. He pushes it into the IV, tilting the bed back to flat. Dean's head spins wildly.  
"Your owner sounded very disappointed about your lack of cooperation."  
Cas knows? Dean doesn't believe that, but then again, Cas left him here. Dean's head spins, and he feels the anesthetic setting in. First it takes the pain, and then it takes his vision, his resolve, everything. His last thought is to dread where he'll wake up.


	7. Chapter 7

He first becomes aware of a dull pressure near his genitals. Not on them, but behind, like too much weight is resting on that sensitive stretch of skin between his ass and his junk. He tries to move away, which is when he becomes aware that he can't budge his body off the seat. He tries to wriggle his arms behind his back. Nothing. He tries to kick his feet. They move just barely, hanging on either side of this cruel contraption. Then panic sets him as the last few days flood back. He opens his eyes and sees nothing but the blackness of a blindfold. Every inch of his skin feels compressed, and he can feel the familiar pressure of a cock cage between his legs. His ass is still throbbing from the earlier mistreatment, but at least it's empty, getting a chance to heal up. He squirms again, and becomes acquainted with the barest squeak of thick latex. He cries out, and hears the muffled, broken sound coming up through the long gag down his throat. Every attempt to squirm away confirms it further. A gimp suit. He must be head to toe in a latex, and he can feel several additional thick straps across his slightly spread thighs, and another holding him across the chest to some kind of chain hanging from the roof. He tries to lean as much weight on that as possible, but he's been cleverly bound. It's basically impossible to straighten up any further, or bend down in any direction.  
  
  
He writhes again, putting as much force into it as possible, straining every muscle. There's the soft squeaking again, but it accomplishes nothing. As he pants and panics, he hears a gentle click from across the room, then footsteps coming closer. He tries to turn to face the oncoming presence with no avail.  
"Oh, you're awake, boy?"  
He recognizes the voice, and can't place it at first until he remembers the woman who Castiel knew. Annie? Abbie? Something like that. Fucking bitch. That's what he should call her. Capital 'B', Bitch. He winces as she runs her hands across his thighs and his chest. He can feel everything through the latex, maybe even more intensely than just bare skin. She reaches his nipples, pinching one hard. He lets out an unintentional whimper.  
"Such a perfect body. Michael's always had a good eye. A pity about the personality," she mutters, almost to herself. The sounds are all slightly muffled with the latex over his ears, but he can sense her walking around to behind him. There's a touch at his neck, and then the sound of a zip. All at once, there's light flooding into his eyes. She steps around to face him, carefully easing two short breathing tubes out of his nostrils, unzipping another seam at the neck, and peeling the head piece off the suit. The room is almost exactly like the infirmary he woke up in, except there's a desk in the corner, and the entire far wall is mirror. He can see himself, his pink flushed face, his wet spittle covered lips stretched around a thick gag. He can see that he's tied in to something like an exercise bike, some kind of strange motor in front of him. His feet dangle just outside the pedals, and he tries to step both feet onto them to alleviate some of the pressure on his taint. It doesn't help that much. His body looks obscene, stretched out in the black latex, hips pushed forward by the bondage position, looking for all the world like a sex toy rather than a person. Even his junk looks smooth, genitals are concealed within a cold metallic chastity belt, but he can see the catheter running out to the bag. There's an IV snaking down underneath the latex, and out the seams of one wrist, too. The thing that has him scared breathless is the dildo poised below the odd seat. A quick press of one of the pedals has it rising an inch up towards his ass. He stops moving at once. She notices, and smiles brightly.  
"Quick on the draw, aren't we?"  
  
  
Dean tries to say something through the gag. Ask for Castiel. She just tilts her head in response, and giggles.  
"Badly behaved slaves don't get to talk like people. You don't know that by now? ...what has Castiel been doing with you?"  
Dean tenses. He doesn't know if he can trust Cas, and he's angry and betrayed, but he's also scared of reflecting badly onto him. He goes more limp, not that it makes any difference. Fighting isn't gonna help now. He whines again when she snaps on  latex gloves and picks up three small clamps, attaching one to a copper terminal on the top of his chastity belt. She holds the other two in one hand, flicking and rubbing each nipple beneath the latex, and then attaching them one by one. That hurts. Cas occasionally bites or licks them, but he rarely gets much attention. He'd forgotten how sensitive they were. Maybe even more sensitive now.  She flicks them both, watching Dean flinch, and is content that they are firmly attached. She picks up a damp wipe from a box, cleaning his cheeks and lips. Dean starts whining with protest when she picks up the hood, prodding around at his nostrils to make sure that he can breathe, and then zipping it tightly up, and fastening it back onto the suit. Dean again can't see, though he can still hear her voice, and feel her hands as she runs her hands across his hips and his ass. The chastity belt parts his ass cheeks a little, and Dean feels her fingers prod at his asshole through the latex. The design terrifies him. He's opened right up.  
"These suits are very expensive, but a must have for obedience training. It takes weeks for them to be custom made. Michael was so thoughtful to mention that you'd be coming our way."  
Dean shivers, feeling a physical chill of fear setting in. How long could Michael have known about this. Weeks? How long had Castiel known about the move without telling him? He suddenly doubts anything he thought he knew about Castiel.  
"If you're good for our guest, if you stay quiet like a good pet, I'll make sure you get to sleep in Cas' bed tonight," she's whispering in his ear as she runs fingers across his hips again, unzipping something. His still sore asshole clenches as cold air contrasts the tight latex. The unspoken threat of punishment is much more powerful than a place beside a man he's not sure he knows.  
  
  
An abrupt buzzer sounds while she's still fondling his latex covered ass. She moves away from Dean. He doesn't relax at all.  
"It's me," comes Castiel's uncomfortable voice. Through a speaker, but undeniably Castiel. Dean shudders once more, feeling horribly sick, surprised that Castiel has the stomach for torturing him. Maybe he was never the person I thought. Then another thought occurs to him. If Cas doesn't know who I am, and most of the other slaves are in latex, he might not even recognize me. If Michael ordered the suit without Cas' knowledge, and they normally take weeks to arrive, Castiel wouldn't even think it could be me. Dean starts shaking. He hears footsteps, that stop outside the room. Then a door opening in the mirrored wall. Probably a one way mirror. A tiny part of Dean's mind wonders if Cas was surprised by him, maybe even distracted, turned on. Most of his brain is occupied with panic.  
"This is new," Castiel says. His voice sounds level, but Dean knows him well enough to hear that gravelly edge to it. He is turned on. Dean hates him, suddenly, with a fiery intensity. How can he get turned on by something like this?  
"Oh, you haven't seen anything yet. ...don't worry. The trainee can't hear our conversation."  
Dean doesn't know why she's lying. He wonders if he screamed enough, if Castiel would recognize his muffled voice. Possibly. What then? He gave me to them. He obviously doesn't give a shit if they hurt me.  
  
  
Dean is paying so much attention to everything happening, on edge and pumping adrenaline, that the pop of a flicked switch makes him start. He hears a motorized whirring, and soft scraping. It's followed by a sharp electrical shock, on both his nipples, and running down the length of his bound cock. He whimpers. It's followed by another one, less sharp, more of a continuous dose of pain. Just like Michael's torture all that time ago. Michael owns this facility too, Dean knows.  
"So, you see, the first plate spins, and these brushes contact the surface of the second plate, causing the electrostatic discharge."  
"...that seems complex," Castiel says, curiously, but not sounding too impressed. The arousal seems to have faded out of his voice.  
"It's the friction that causes it. It'll become unbearable for the slave in a minute as the machine reaches full speed."  
"And what then?"  
"Then he has a choice. The bike's wheels power the second plate, and spin it in the same direction as the first. If they're both spinning in the same direction, the friction is significantly reduced."  
"So it's an exercise bike?" Castiel asks, and is distracted by a cry of pain from Dean as a particularly sever jolt travels down the shaft of his tormented penis.  
"I think this whore's held out long enough. There's a riding crop in that cupboard. Encourage him to get moving."  
Castiel's footsteps are more muffled in here, but Dean can hear him moving around, and then to behind him where his ass is exposed. He hears the swish before it lands. Castiel must have some pent up anger. Maybe over him. The pain is sudden, radiant, and unexpectedly awful through latex. Dean cries out through the gag. The pain in his nipples and across his cock is getting unbearable. Despite his fear, he begins to turn the pedals.  
  
  
He stops at once when he feels a slippery tip touch his hole. The electricity is reduced somewhat, but quickly builds back up when he stops peddling. He cries out again, and Castiel brings the crop down on his other ass cheek. He holds out another second before he pushes the pedals down, and feels the huge dildo pushing past the rim of his puffy, abused asshole.  
"That's huge," Castiel says, sounding detached, but also very turned on as Dean's knees shake, pushing the pedals cautiously through another rotation. It keeps sliding further into him. At least ten inches, and much thicker than the machine they'd had at the last facility. Perhaps the cruelest feature is the bubbles along the silicone length, each one popping in with a new painful stretch. Once inside, they rub along his prostate as the toy slides deeper.  
"Yes. We downsize when we have a timeframe for their return to a useful whore. Make sure their owner can still enjoy them. This first few weeks of training are to show them that the only way to avoid suffering is to get fucked. We don't even allow them to orgasm until we know they're worthy of returning home."  
Castiel lays the crop down on Dean's ass again, hard. Dean squeals with surprised, too focused on the toy to remember to dread the blows. His feet push faster, and his asshole clenches at the pain. The dildo continues into him forcefully.  "How long has this one been here?"  
"Three weeks. He's been behaving terribly though."  
Castiel is silent again, and then the anger seems to well up. Dean tries to pedal faster, to ease the pain, and please Castiel, but the dildo fucking him is making it so close to impossible. Worst of all, he's starting to get turned on by the knots on the dildo rubbing across his prostate relentlessly on the way in, and the way out. Castiel doesn't let up. Another blow. Another. They come raining down as Dean howls with pain.  
  
  
Dean doesn't hear the woman moving, but her voice suddenly sounds from behind him.  
"That's enough. ...he's not Dean. You should punish _your_ slave. He deserves it," she murmurs. The blows stop. Dean stops pedaling, indignant, but the shocks soon become unbearable. He's crying freely, but the tears too seem to be trapped in the tight latex. He moans breathily as he resumes, trying to speed up the pace, ignoring the harsh fucking he's getting.  
"...I...I'm sorry if I was out of line."  
"Don't be. It's just what this one needs. Let's sit down and go over the blueprints and the patent. I need your expert eye."  
Dean hears that Castiel is emotionally vulnerable. He has no sympathy, not now, not in pain, and being violated by this massive dildo in this relentless fashion. He worries about what's going to happen when the lube runs out, but he figures out soon enough that it's the same as at the facility. Hollow tip. He could be here all day. He can hear the discussion, but he keeps zoning out from the pain, and the concentration it takes to keep pedaling. His calves are cramping up from the unusual position and the repetitive movement. There's no hint that this torture is going to stop though. Dean snaps to attention again, as there's a shuffling movement, and then without a word to him, the door opens and he hears them both leaving, chatting animatedly about voltage and current.  
  
  
Dean starts screaming when he realizes he's alone. He stops pedaling to give his ass a rest from the constant fucking, but it soon becomes agony again. His cock feels like it's on fire, and the pain in his nipples seems to have spread across his entire chest. He cycles again, and the mechanical fucking continues as he whimpers and cries and screams. The arousal comes back, and his cock hurts so much worse now that it's struggling to get hard. He's pouring with sweat, and every inch of skin seems to be slippery beneath the confining latex. He finds the optimum speed to pedal at, and tries to keep moving for the indeterminable time of fucking himself to avoid the worst of the electric shocks. He starts sobbing when the electricity shuts off, and keeps crying when someone enters. He doesn't have the strength to stop. He hears them fiddling administering something into the IV. The drug feels familiar already, and Dean is so relieved to be unconscious. His ass, his legs, and even his insides are burning. Not to mention his nipples and his confined cock. Feeling the pain fading away is more comfort than he could have hoped to get anywhere else. He was good.  
  
  
He wakes so sore that he can't even move. He finds that he can't move much anyway, even when he forces his muscles to work. He's lying on his belly on the far side of a soft bed. Cas' bed. His arms bound to the headboard, ankles chained to the base. There's a thin cover over him. It's a weird combination of kindness and cruelty. Makes sense. It's Castiel. The latex is gone, and he's so relieved about that _one_ thing that for a moment he approaches something like contentment. Only one moment. He's still gagged. He doesn't even know why. If he screamed, nobody would come. Screaming is normal in this fucking place. He focuses more on the rest of his body. His nipples are swollen, hypersensitive where they brush against the bedding, and his cock is aching from within the chastity belt that still rests on his hips. His legs are aching like they're about to decay away, and his ass burns from the vicious pounding it received. It feels almost numb, too. Probably still stretched out. He moans with horror at the thought that he'll have to go through it all again.  
"Dean?"  
Castiel appears around the corner, hair wet from a shower. He sighs when he sees the tears, brushing Dean's cheek. Dean turns his head the other way.  
"Dean, look at me. Are you okay?"  
Dean absolutely refuses to soften at all to the touch. For some reason, Castiel walks away. The television blares a news story about a riot. Dean squirms to try to tell where Castiel is.  
"I don't have all of the keys," Castiel's voice sounds low in his throat, leaning very close to Dean's ear, almost straddling him. "I can the cuffs on take your hands off, but you can't do anything stupid, Dean."  
Dean nods. Castiel steps away, and returns with a single key. The second one is loose, Dean drags the other arm towards his body, dragging the short chain through the slotted bed post, pushing up onto his sore body filled with adrenaline. Castiel tumbles off, and Dean grabs hold of him, hands wrapping around his throat.  
"Dean," Cas hisses, trying to push him off. Dean bares his teeth around the gag, fighting with every scrap of willpower left in him, muscles shaking with exertion. He's smaller than Cas from Michael's diet regime, but taller by half an inch. Castiel winces with pain, and tries to shuffle away. Dean is still held to the bed's base. Dean fights furiously, tightening his fingers around Cas' throat with cold rage.  
"Dean. Dean. I found Sam," he whispers through his crushed airway.  
Dean stops absolutely dead. His hands loosen, and Castiel shoves him back down onto the bed.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Castiel collapses to the floor beside the bed, out of reach, and Dean shuffles down to the base of the bed, fists clenched. His eyes dart around the room, weighing up potential escape. The TV still blares loudly. Now, he feels a bit of guilt. He obviously hurt Castiel pretty badly, from the way he's holding his throat. Was that just a ploy? Mentioning Sam's name like that? His brain is too scrambled to decide if Cas sounded sincere or not. He flinches when Castiel crawls upright, leaning on the wall.  
"I have to go to the infirmary," he says, in a crushed voice. He scowls immediately. "...they'll probably tell me to kill you."  
Dean flinches again, shaking his head, wishing he had the gag out to beg.  
Cas' features soften a fraction, but his anger builds up at once. "Goddammit, Dean. Couldn't you just behave? For a fucking week? How did my training fail so miserably," he snaps, not much more than a whisper, but so loud in Dean's ears that tears bubble up at once. Castiel scowls, rubbing his eyes. He sits down on the bed, just out of Dean's reach, and his eyes flicker surreptitiously over towards an alarm beside the bed. He shifts more to his left, distancing himself from that too. "How could you be so naive, Dean? You think Michael just let you go? You think he'd just let me go?" Castiel whispers. It's barely audible over the television.  
Dean squints, and then his defensive posture collapses. He forms a tiny bundle. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to keep suffering either.  
Castiel rubs his throat again before he murmurs again. "You just had to be good for a couple of months. Then it would seem like a coincidence," he mutters. "Michael would never release you. A free man walking around with all that information about him? That any of his enemies would pay so dearly for? No. He doesn't seem to want you dead, either, which I suppose you should be grateful for. Not that Michael will intervene if you keep acting out like this," he adds, frowning.  
Dean is very confused now. He looks around more suspiciously for cameras. Even in this room, it must be. His skin prickles.  
"I couldn't just contact them. Your father is a wanted man. He's been conducting raids on slaving houses since you were bought. _He_ was impossible to find. But you said... your brother was very smart. So I started looking into scholarships for low income individuals that would be your brother's age," Castiel whispers, speaking obviously hard for him now. "I knew it would be a pseudonym, but I thought perhaps he'd keep his first name. Samuel. And he did. I found him."  
  
  
Dean's eyes widen, and a nervous sweat breaks out across his forehead. Sammy cannot get involved in this. He made all these awful decisions to keep all this shit of Sam's plate. His hands shake, and all his injuries scream as he tucks his legs in closer to his body.  
"...I'm not going to hurt him, Dean. I didn't report the false identity to the authorities. One of my contacts, another ex-slave, she works for the city. She gave Sam the information about your transfer to this facility. Made it seem... almost an accident."  
Dean whimpers, shaking his head. No, no, no, Sam can't know. Sam can't know about any of this, about what they've made me into. A mindless, spineless whore. Tears start bubbling up, and he clenches into a tighter ball, still shaking his head frantically.Castiel's hand gradually extends out, touching Dean's hair softly. Dean doesn't shy away. His heavy head leans into Cas' hand as he starts sobbing.  
"It was too risky to tell you. You're not exactly a good liar, and every inch of Michael's facilities are bugged, you know," he whispers. "Even now, I'm taking a huge risk. But you have to know. You have to hold on to yourself, Dean. ...they'll know who did this to my neck. They'll punish you very harshly, but they can't outright kill you without my permission. I'm sure your family will be here soon. Then you'll never have to see me again."  
Dean isn't sure if he's being lied to. It's too cruel, if it's a lie. Cas is cruel, but not like this. He shivers and shakes as more sobs well up. He chokes around the gag, and Castiel carefully guides him down onto the bed again, pressing his shoulderblades and tugging the handcuffs up. Dean doesn't resist as they are refastened to the bed. He cries into the pillow, eyes screwed tight shut.  
"I'll tell them you woke up in a blind panic, that you stopped as soon as you realized who I was," Castiel whispers, kissing his hair, brushing a hand down Dean's back, right down to the metal band of the chastity belt. Cas' hand pauses above the welts of the day's hardship. Dean hopes he connects them to what he did to that latex suited whore, but Castiel seems too otherwise preoccupied. The television goes off, the door closes quietly, and he goes lax into the bedding.  
  
  
Dean lies still and limp when the door opens. It's not Castiel, he can tell that from the heavier footsteps. He screws his eyes shut, trying to stay limp. He hasn't quite decided if he's making a break for it, or if he's going to cooperate in case Castiel is telling the truth. He doesn't get much of a say. Another injection in the back of his neck, and he's unconscious. That alone is terrifying for him. How many times has he been knocked out in just these past few days? They don't give a shit about his health. It's also deeply unsettling on another level. It deprives him of any knowledge, any agency, even inside his own head. He remembers Cas' words as his grip on reality loosens once more. You have to hold onto yourself. They ring true now.  
  
  
A sound disturbs him, and Dean wakes up in the now familiar latex suit, in an uncomfortably contorted position. All his weight is on his shoulders, with his knees bolted to the floor on either side of his head, ankles strapped to his ass. Makes him feel weaker than ever, like he's been amputated or something. They probably do that to some whores, to make them less trouble. He shudders at the thought, then retches. The feeding tube is back, and he can feel the uncomfortable fullness of an enema at once, even if it's not as much as his last one. He hates the way his ass is pointed straight to the sky, feeling more exposed in this position than ever. There's a considerable stretch on his hole at the same time, a hooked plug that he can feel rubbing against his insides as he squirms. His dick feels raw all over again, and he wonders if they changed the catheter while he slept. Small mercies. He's just wondering what woke him when he hears it again, a scuffing of high heels near his head. That bitch. It must be. She doesn't seem to have anything to say to him this time. There's the clicking of heels, and a soft sigh. Dean wriggles his arms, bound and bolted down above his head, and tries to wriggle his fingers in the latex. They're bound in some kind of unforgiving mitten. At least he's not dead. Cas must have stood up for him. Oh god, Cas. He feels an incredible rolling of confusing, often completely contrary emotions towards Castiel. Tears well up at once. And then his emotions are all replaced by adrenaline as he feels the plug stirring within him with a soft vibration, dancing along his prostate just enough to make him wince. The vibration is accompanied by a small buzz of uncomfortable electricity around the stretched rim, and then even deeper inside him, along the length of the metallic plug. Even stranger, his insides seem to stir, as the water of the enema conducts the electric current around his bowels. He moans a little at the oddly arousing feeling. But there's nothing further, not with the cock cage locking him away, inside the chastity belt. He can feel the sharp pain as his confused cock strains up against the unforgiving metal.  
  
  
His belly is really stinging now. It's not normal water, he figures. It's something to make sure all of his insides get tortured like this. He hears the faintest chuckle from above. It's her chuckle, she's sure of it. He fights the restraints, filled with swelling anger, as her hand strokes his chest and attaches two clamps again. There's a tug on each nipple, and Dean can feel them tugged again by wires. They're pulled very tight and chipped to the hooked plug. The vibration and the electricity flowing down them isn't painful on it's own, but they're already sore from spending so long tortured the day before. Was it the day before? He feels like he's in some kind of timeless nightmare, broken only by that anesthetic knocking him into dreamless sleep. He whimpers and tries to thrust his hips up, and the toy presses harder into his prostate, earning another short moan. He feels his bladder emptying without realizing it, relieved for the first time by the catheter, and then ashamed at how little control he has over his body. She laughs again softly, but it's cut off by a new sound. Moaning, men and women, almost indistinguishable. The audio track  is incredibly loud, and varied in pitch and volume. It echoes around the hard corners of the room Dean is held in. He hears the door shut over the audio, and he's left squirming miserably. He fights mentally for several minutes, refusing to give in to the thoughts of sex. The odd buzzing builds up deep within him, and he focusses on the endless, pornographic moans.  
  
  
His cock tries to harden again, and he sobs at the realization that he's not going to get off this way. He's had those prostate orgasms before during his first training, those weak, clear releases that didn't seem to help the arousal. He suddenly wonders what would happen if it happened with a catheter in. The thought horrifies him, and he tries to squirm and clench up, anything to stop the throbbing pulse across his prostate. The arousal from his nipples being played with just makes it all that much worse. He can't move, though, can't do anything but take it. He starts to panic just before the first release comes. To his relief, it seems to flow through the catheter, and then, to his horror, he feels a wet warmth on his own face. There must be two tubes inside his dick, that's why it hurts so much. One of them pointing down right onto his face. He squirms again, not able to move enough to redirect it. Then he remembers the feeding tube, and whimpers. It'll be dripping down his throat now. He shudders, but the stimulation is still going, and now he's hypersensitive. He screams around the feeding tube as he feels the second build up. Less this time, but it ends up dripping across the latex mask. The humiliation burns his cheeks beneath the mask, and the sounds of pleasure from the taped audio wash over him as he cries again. The tickling tug across his nipples is now bordering on excruciating. His fingers keep moving to brush it away, and each time meet the resistance of the tight bondage. Worst of all is the constant throbbing against his prostate. He starts screaming around the tube as his cock once again half-hardens. There's nothing but his suffering and the endless stream of sex in his ears. Reality slips away from him, but he doesn't go unconscious this time. Instead, he seems to slip into a blank haze of thoughtless misery. After several hours, and innumerate dry climaxes, he can barely remember his own name, let alone why he's being punished.


	9. Chapter 9

There's no sign of relent. Every so often, the enema will be drained and refilled, and slop will be poured down his throat, mingling with whatever else he's dribbled down there. It's been close to three days since Dean was strapped into place when the electricity turns off. The silence is deafening at first, as is the absence of that endless buzz. He rocks his hips up as best as possible, trying to return the stimulation, crying when it doesn't return. He's still crying when there's a loud sound of smashing glass and multiple sets of footsteps approaching.  
"Get it wrong again, that's a finger. Or maybe I should be chopping something else off," comes the harsh bark of a voice. Dean hears the words, but they sound unfamiliar, but he can't connect them to a person. He can't even figure out meaning in the words. The door to his room opens.  
"This isn't him."  
He knows that voice too, but he can't think who it is. The reply that comes is filled with cold, immeasurable fury.  
"Put your hand on the table."  
He feels a touch at his head, and then a hand touching the breathing tube, and his coated, cracked lips, covered in days of release.  
"Wait, Dad," come another voice. Angry too, but with so many other emotions mingling in too. Suddenly there's a touch at his head, and he can feel part of the latex being tugged at. He knows that voice. Who is that? Who... where is he? And then suddenly he's blinking against light as the hood is tugged off until it catches on the breathing tube.  
"It's him. It's him," comes a broken voice above him.  
Like a dream, there's his little brother. Not quite. Details are wrong. Too big, too old. How could that be Sammy?  
"Shit. Sam, get that shit out of his mouth. ...gentle, okay? Hey, Dean. You with me?" John asks, leaning over.  
Dean just blinks stupidly. John? Dad? No. It can't be. He starts choking at once as Sam pulls the feeding tube out, and Sam touches his sweaty cheek in reassurance.  
"Hey, it's fine. It's okay. C'mon, I know what I'm doing. ...you smell so fucking bad, Dean."  
Dean just stares, mouth gaping open after it's gone. Sam is up too quickly, though. He's looking at Dean's ass, trying to disguise the horror on his face. Dean is too out of it to notice. He starts whining when Sam tugs the plug, gentle at first, and then a little more firmly. It finally pulls free. Dean cries freely, doing his best to piece this all together. His body is aching for stimulation even now. He feels Sam loosening straps, and he falls to one side, panting. Only then does he see the very badly beaten Castiel leaning heavily on a cabinet in the corner of the room. Was there some kind of accident? He tries to ask, but can't even move his mouth. Next he feels deft fingers pulling away pieces of the latex one by one, dismantling the suit. He feels his bowels leaking the enema, but he's not aware enough to be ashamed. Eventually, the suit is completely gone, except for the chastity belt.  
"I can't pick this lock," Sam says softly. "I don't think boltcutters will do, either."  
"Check that cupboard over there," Castiel says in a gravelly voice, gesturing towards a tightly locked cabinet. "For medical emergencies."  
Sam picks up the bolt-cutters, stepping over.  
"Sam, don't. Could be a trap."  
"Then we'll kill him."  
Dean seems to understand that, and he whimpers, burying his face against the tiles and curling into a fetal position. There's the sound of crunching metal, and then Sam is turning him over, and then the chastity belt pops free. Sam pulls it out of the way.  
John turns on Castiel immediately. "My boy needs some clothes. Strip," he says, gesturing at the pristine suit with his gun.  
Castiel glowers, but his eyes dart down to Dean again, and he starts pulling off the suit, setting pieces on the bench.  
  
  
Sam walks over to the sink, starting to run the water, trying to catch Dean's eyes. "Hey, you're okay. Can you get up for me, Dean?"  
"We don't have time to clean him up," John says, tersely.  
"We don't have time not to. You think he's gonna be able to walk outta here on his feet like this?" Sam counters, tugging Dean over towards the sink. Dean follows, perfectly obedient. Sam holds his hand under the flow, waiting for it to be only gently warm before he splashes Dean with it. Dean reaches up, brushing Sam's hair where it's been pushed out of place by the balaclava, now pulled up to his forehead like a beanie. He touches Sam's arms next, where they're splashing water down his cheeks. He finally realizes how thirsty he is, and parts his lips. Sam tries to smile. Dean tries to mimic it.  
"Can you get dressed, Dean?"  
He nods, and turns around. He stops dead, when he sees Castiel stripped down to his underwear. He finally speaks, voice cracking and grating. "No, no, no--"  
"He's not going to touch you," John says, meeting Dean's eyes finally. "Put on the clothes, son."  
"Don't hurt him," Dean whispers, though it's obviously a little late for that. There's a couple of vicious bruises forming across his ribs. Cas' face is swollen from several blows, and his nose is dribbling blood.  
"Get dressed," John says, a little sharper. He's seen this before. Stockholm Syndrome. But Dean is tougher than those other slaves. He just needs a minute.  
Dean obeys, picking up the clothing set out, pulling it on. It fits, passably. A little baggy. Sam squeezes his shoulder.  
"Looking sharp, Dean. C'mon. Put on the shoes. We gotta head. The rest of the guys are on their way."  
"...guys?" Dean echoes.  
"Yeah. We're busting this place open. Dad and me went in first to cut the electricity."  
"And find this sick fuck. So you could blow his brains out," John says, handing the gun over to Dean.  
Dean takes it, holding it loosely. "Who?" he echoes, staring up at John, then at Sam.  
"The guy who fucking did this to you," John says, gently, but venomously. "You can do it, kid."  
  
  
Dean finally pieces enough together to gasp in horror. He drops the gun. To his surprise, Castiel doesn't move for it, but Sam does. Sam's hands close with incredible practice around the  firearm, and he levels it at Castiel with a look of disgust.  
"No. No," Dean says, stepping in front of the gun. "No. Sam. He contacted you. He's a good guy."  
"Fuck that. He was lounging around in his office while you were being tortured," Sam says, angry now.  
John scowls. He expected the Dean he knew. Angry, fiery, seeking revenge. Not this broken half-image.  
"He can come with us," Dean pleads. "Please. Sir. Please."  
John's eyes soften a little, but then he grabs Castiel by the throat and pushes him up against the wall. "You gonna tell anyone about us, huh, boy?"  
Cas shakes his head.  
"John, John, I swear--"  
"Step back, Dean," John snaps.  
"I--" Dean starts panicking, and then his legs seem to give out from underneath him. Sam catches him at once, supporting his weight. Dean whimpers into Sam's hands, squirming slightly. Sam looks appalled, trying to restrain Dean again.  
"Dean. Snap out of it," Sam whispers, shaking him a little.  
Castiel thinks of his words all that time ago. What had he said? With all due respect, sir, we don't want to turn the slave's brain to pulp. "Dean. Calm down. _Now_."  
Dean looks up, and it seems to register. He nods stiffly, and falls still. There's terse silence as John weighs up his next actions.  
"Did you rape him?" John asks, softly, pulling a knife from his own belt, and pointing it straight towards Cas' left eye. His hand is shaking enough that the tip dances.  
Castiel blinks immediately, fear showing. He nods.  
"No. No, don't believe that. He didn't. I love him. ...I'll never forgive you if you kill him," Dean adds, very quietly.  
John's lips twitch, and then he lowers the knife. "Whatever you want, kid. You've been through enough."  
"I want him to come with us."  
"Okay, I misspoke. Nobody gets whatever they want. But I won't kill him," John says gruffly, pulling his balaclava down. Sam does the same.  
"What about the other slaves?" Dean whispers, glancing around. He doesn't have the energy to fight. He doesn't even know Cas would want to come with him.  
"We gotta go bust the front gate, and they'll be through. We just couldn't risk them figuring out you were our target, and holding you hostage," John explains flatly.  
Castiel straightens up. Sounds like a death sentence for him, if the liberators come through. The scar around his neck is very prominent. Maybe that will save him. "I love you too, Dean," he whispers.  
"Shut the fuck up, sicko," Sam snaps, tugging Dean away. Dean feels paralyzing fear at each familiar white corridor. The total darkness stretches backwards into the austere reflections. He slows, unable to breathe, and John pulls him along. The stumbles out the open door, and Sam bundles him in the back of a familiar car, and picks up a jacket from the front seat, spreading it over Dean's body. He curls closer, wrapping an arm around Dean's shoulders. "Hey, it's okay. John is going to be a second." Dean stares out the window. He can see the wide glass window from here, all the way up in the apartments above the facility. That could Cas' room. Their room. He starts sobbing, and Sam's arm tightens. He hears John open the car door, and then he feels the engine growl as they pull away. He screws his eyes shut.

  
He wakes up to the swiping street lights on his fluttering lashes. He shakes his head a little, trying to clear the ache of pain throughout all his body, and put it all together.  
"Sammy?" Dean whispers, starting to believe it. His eyes flit around the back seat of the car. He starts crying, curling up tighter under his father's jacket. He tries to speak through the tears. "When did you get so tall, kiddo?"  
Sam seems half asleep. He smiles softly down. "You missed some stuff. I'll fill you in."


	10. Chapter 10

Dean could be mistaken for someone absolutely fearless, a slim figure walking through one of the dilapidated residential areas of the city. It was something about the cocktail of hormones Michael used to give him that he never ended up very strong. That or the lack of food. His clothing is loose, and in many layers. Mostly Sam's. He never figured out how to dress himself. The green eyes are glassy with alcohol, but he isn't stumbling yet. He reaches the shabby apartment block, buzzing up. He waits for the intercom to come on before he leans in close, delivering a sarcastic whisper.  
"...it's me."  
There's unfriendly silence at the other end of the two way line. Then the door clicks, and Dean wanders confidently in, heading for the staircase. The elevator never works right. Besides, Dean doesn't like being in enclosed spaces. No surprises there. He knocks on the faded grey door of a corner apartment, leaning on the wall as he waits. He doesn't have to wait long. The door opens inward sharply, and there's a weary, frowning face looking out.  
"You're going to get me killed," Castiel says tersely.  
"You're being melodramatic," Dean says, pressing in.  
  
Castiel moves aside to allow him in, though the frown doesn't fade. He's aged more than Dean has, dark hair lightened, and lines of concern appearing around his eyes, between his brow. He raises his left hand to Dean, fingers twitching inwards. The last three are metallic prosthetic, a reminder of his last brush with the emancipators. His meaning is very clear. "If John knew that you still--"  
Dean silences him with a long, drunken kiss. He waltzes past then, through to the kitchen. He's still skinny, finds it hard to remember to eat of his own accord, but when he gets drunk he's always hunting for food. He grins lazily over his shoulder as he pulls out a box of leftovers. "John doesn't know the first fucking thing about my life. Cas, man, I'm here to get laid, not talk about my shitty father."  
Castiel's jaw tightens, and he lapses back to silence. He looks slightly offended, but still concerned. "What happened to that girlfriend?" he asks grimly.  
"She wasn't my type," Dean says, reaching to pull out a fork and then picks at the cold pasta.  
"What about her wasn't your type?"  
"Too young."  
"You said she was older than you."  
Dean just shrugs nonchalantly. "I don't like it when Sam tries to set me up with people."  
Castiel sighs with exasperation and walks away, switching on a few lights and then settling into a chair opposite. The house is a bit of a disaster, all sorts of pieces of mechanics and circuitry scattered into corners and on surfaces. In the center of it all, Dean continues to wolf down the meal, impervious to the annoyed glare.  
  
"I missed you," Dean says, finishing the pasta and looking up.  
That softens Castiel's features just a fraction. "Dean, you have to move on."  
"Why? Why isn't this my choice?"  
"Because you don't know how to make healthy decisions."  
"Now you sound like Michael."  
Castiel tenses up a lot, chair scraping back as he stands.  
Dean's eyes flicker up, appraising more than afraid. "You can hit me if you want."  
"Get out, Dean. I don't want a part in this."  
"Yeah, you do," Dean murmurs, voice slipping into something more sultry. He pulls his coat off, and then a few layers at once.  
Castiel's eyes narrow. "Put your clothes back on, and get out."  
There seems to be some sort of internal struggle for Dean. His lips twitch with microexpressions of fear. Authority is still a tough thing for him to ignore. But he does resist, stepping forward. "You don't get to order me around any--"  
"Fine. But only because you've pissed me off. Go wait for me."  
And just like that, Dean is following orders again. He strips off the rest of the way, stumbling into the spare room, and kneeling down on the floor in position.  
Castiel is gone for a few minutes, which only turns Dean on more. The trepidation, the goosebumps on his bare skin. The tiles are cold, and seem to be leeching all the heat out of him. He jolts when Castiel touches his back, pulling his head up to blindfold him. He relaxes completely when the straps start being fastened, docilely lead by Castiel. He opens his mouth for the ballgag he knows is coming. Then, Castiel manhandles him over and begins fastening him to the floor. Completely helpless and immobilized. Perfect. Dean feels everything else just slip away.  
  
Castiel's machine is an imperfect recreation, something done with tinkering and trial and error. It feels less cold and analytical, like it's some sort of omniscient torturer, and more brutal and uncomfortable. That's good. Dean wants this to hurt. He's almost annoyed when he feels Castiel's fingers gently opening him up. Too careful. Cas doesn't get it. But he'll deal with this bullshit care for his body, because he knows what is coming. He hears it pistoning forward, and jumps as it presses inside him, almost all in one. He whimpers with surprise. Cas really wasn't going that easy on him. The stretch hurts so much that Dean can't help but tear up. At once, his body is rebelling, telling him to stop it, but the last thing Dean wants in all this is a way out. His body squirms and tests the straps, but there's not a single inch of leeway. He feels the panic building up, alongside the arousal. It forces back into him again, jabbing at his prostrate, making him cry out into the ballgag once more. The pain is unbearable for a moment, but the thrill doesn't fade. He hears Castiel leaving, the door clicking closed. The machine behind him is whirring, purring at him as it claims him. It's like an old friend. Or an old owner. It's his last close to human thought before his entire world becomes the relentless fucking once more. At least an hour passes before Dean vaguely hears the door opening. Castiel doesn't touch him, but Dean knows he'll be getting off. The thought overwhelms him, with a sick sort of pleasure that goes far beyond anything sexual.  
  
"I saw Michael on the news," Dean mutters. It's hours later, muscles aching, showered and redressed, lying flat on Castiel's couch while Castiel packages circuitry at the table opposite. Castiel's spine stiffens at the name again, and Dean doesn't have to see his face to know he's frowning and gritting his teeth.  
"Yes. The sentencing. It seemed lenient."  
Dean says nothing to that. He picks up an abandoned piece of junk from the floor, probably an obsolete prototype, and plays with the gears. "I was almost another dead body buried on the estate. I guess I should be thankful."  
"No, you shouldn't be thankful to anyone, about anything."  
"Not even Sammy? For saving me?"  
Castiel tenses more. "Why are you here if you hate me--" he begins, and realizes how insecure he sounds. "What do you want?" he rephrases.  
Dean doesn't say anything. His lip curls a little. "You want this just as much as me, you sicko," he says, under his breath.  
"I'm not the trauma victim here."  
"I'm not a victim."  
Castiel doesn't say anything to that. There's more silence, until Castiel tears a piece of tape off too short. His fist curls round the dispenser. In one single movement of rage, he's standing, throwing it against the opposite wall, watching it shatter. Dean jumps, fists clenching as he comes to his feet.  
"Wow, Cas. Tell us how you really feel," he mutters caustically, passing to Castiel's cabinet to pour himself a drink.  
  
"You've had enough, Dean," Cas says in a gravelly voice.  
"I'm a free man."  
"It's my fucking house."  
"Consider it backpay on unclaimed wages, then," Dean returns under his breath. His hand shakes as he pours bourbon into a mug.  
Castiel's eyes are cold and empty. "Why did you kiss me? When you came in? Why are you intent on stringing me along?"  
"You're the one who always pushes me away," Dean says, frowning.  
"Of course I push you away."  
"But you don't push too hard, or how would you get to act out your fucked up fantasies?" Dean says, sweetly.  
"You want to have this argument again?"  
Dean doesn't. He finishes the drink. "I'm gonna sleep in your bed."  
"Of course you are," Castiel says disparagingly.  
"...I mean, I'm gonna sleep in your bed, and I want you to sleep in your bed too," Dean says under his breath. He takes the mug with him. Castiel tries not to think about it, fantasize about the warm body beside him, breaking the loneliness. He can't concentrate any more on work. He finishes three more packages for delivery, and walks into the dark room, pulling off his t-shirt and slipping beneath the covers. Dean is asleep, back curled, tightly in fetal position. That's normal, these days.  
  
Dean wakes up in the middle of the night and finds himself curled against Castiel's back. He kisses the warm skin absentmindedly, not quite aware of where exactly he is. He doesn't pull away when he recalls his night, but it does trigger other memories. Long ago, now. That was such a happy period of his life. As Castiel's slave. He knows that he can't admit that, not to anyone, barely even himself. He yawns, stifling it into Castiel's shoulder blade. Castiel shuffles, rolling over and blinking. They stare at each other in silence. Dean gives the faintest grin, one eyebrow raising. Castiel's face is impenetrably blank.  
"I wanna move in," Dean mutters.  
Castiel says nothing at all.  
"I don't want normal, Cas. And if I did, I couldn't cut it. I've tried."  
Cas sighs, closing his eyes, though his arms tighten on Dean's, his fingers brushing down Dean's spine.  
"I'd pay rent. My lease is up in a month anyway."  
Castiel's brow creases. "Let's talk in the morning."  
Dean makes a faint sound of assent. "I didn't mean that. About you being fucked up in the head."  
"You didn't say that."  
Dean chuckles almost inaudibly. "Say no. If you don't want me here in your bed."  
Castiel is very quiet. He doesn't say 'no'. Dean thinks he's fallen asleep, but then he starts speaking slowly, quietly.  
  
"The fact they even brought Michael in on those crimes means his power is weak. That whole family is coming apart. It's gonna be illegal again before you know it."  
"Slavery? Sam was saying. He's working for one of lobbying groups," Dean says, pride inexhaustible.  
"The point is, there are plenty of people who have been through terrible things. You'll have more support. You can heal. You've already come so far. Me? There was something wrong with me from the start. It's why I was so good at... well. I'm sure you remember."  
"You were a slave too."  
"I wish I could blame that," Castiel whispers. There are tears in his eyes now, even though they're screwed shut.  
Dean leans in, kisses him very gently on the forehead. "No offense, dude, but you would be so, so boring if you weren't a little twisted."  
Castiel chokes on a sob, laughter bubbling up in spite of himself.  
Dean grins in response, even though Castiel can't see. "More free slaves means the recreational machines you make are gonna be in hot demand. I'm just trying to get in on the ground floor."  
"Dean, shut up," Castiel mutters, but he pulls him even closer, into a locked embrace.  
"Is that an order?"  
Castiel's hand snakes up to cover his mouth. The metallic fingers don't do much to hush the noise, but the gesture is enough. Dean hears nothing in the warm silence, not even Cas' heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't write happy endings, so this took me a long time. This is just for you readers who brought me so much joy.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick update to add some ah-mazing fanart by xXGoldenSnowflake. Hope my readers love it as much as I do~
> 
> Very NSFW, obviously. What are y'all doing on my filthy, filthy story at work, anyway?

 

  


Thanks and credit to AO3 user [xXGoldenSnowflake](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xXGoldenSnowflake/pseuds/xXGoldenSnowflake)


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